


In Sickness And In Health

by J_Baillier



Series: You Go To My Head [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Autism Spectrum, Depression, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Support, Family Dynamics, Gotta get those johnsils out, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical husbands, Neurodiversity, Nightmares, Otorhinolaryngology, Psychotherapy, RAMC, Relationship confidence, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Smoking, Surgery, You can thank 88thparallel for that term, medical AU, neurosurgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: When John gets a long overdue tonsillectomy, Sherlock is robbed of a chance to meet lots of handsome officers in uniform.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Edgar Kingsley III, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: You Go To My Head [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/392395
Comments: 710
Kudos: 404





	1. An Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> [[an index and guide to all my Sherlock stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011148)]
> 
> Beta help for some of these chapters was provided by Elldotsee.

Leaning against the concrete wall on the landing, Sherlock takes a luxuriously long drag from the electronic cigarette. John doesn't know he keeps the vaporiser in his locker for these kinds of days; he assumes Sherlock has managed to quit for good. Yes, Sherlock is aware of the alarming reports that vaping might be causing unexpected lung damage and yes, he knows it would be best to kick the nicotine habit altogether, but the craving of it is imbedded into the receptors in his brain, into his very _core_ , and it's never going to let go entirely. _Surely the distraction of indulging in a smaller vice is much better than gritting one's teeth trying to resist the craving of something much worse?_

He has to take his glasses off when they fog up from his next exhalation. There's a smudge, perhaps a fingerprint, in the bottom left corner of the right lens — perhaps John has moved them at home and not been careful not to touch it. Sherlock realises he has left the cloths he uses to clean them in the appointment room and only manages to spread the smudge when he untucks a corner of his shirt to use it to rub the lens. He'll have to remedy the situation once he gets back to the outpatient clinic — it'll ruin his concentration if he has to look through something like that. He imagines that is how visual migraine auras look, at first: just vague blotches of missing visual field.

There's a rap on the glass of the emergency exit door. It's Marie — the only one who knows that this landing of the external staircase built in case of fire is a bolthole of his. _It's a fire escape, and that is a clever enough rephrasing of what I am doing right now_ , he thinks to himself while giving her a nod and lifting up five fingers.

Marie's mouth pinches into a line, and she taps her watch — an item she shouldn't be wearing according to NHS hygiene rules. _We all have our discretions._

His thoughts drift back to John. He decides his husband is the normal sort of endearing, oblivious hypocrite who would lecture their spouse and their patient about healthy habits yet live in denial of their own bad one of drowning annoyance, anger and frustration in the amber, watery grave of a glass of whisky at least twice a week. No one would find John's daily, weekly or monthly alcohol intake anywhere close to alarming, but Sherlock has always understood — better than most — that it's the _motive_ that counts the most.

He'd fought with John last night. Well, it was a spat at most. It's just that Sherlock's temper has grown more vicious lately, and his patience waned thin. He has no tolerance for the inane prattle of mediocre minds on any day, and while he can usually politely give John a moment of his time for such tedious nonsense as the Ocado list, last night he'd barked off without thinking that people wasted his time with idiocy at work plenty enough and he found it insulting that John should subject him to such abuse at home, too. John had informed him that if he couldn't be bothered to answer a simple question about perhaps wanting to add something to their order, then he could blame himself if the three flavours of ice cream he would inevitably decide were absolutely vital to his well-being would fail to materialise. John had then rolled his eyes and marched off. He hadn't been angry long, and somehow that had made it worse. It had made Sherlock feel as though it didn't matter that he felt like a violin string stretched close to snapping off.

What is wrong with him these days? Everything is fine — more than fine, in fact. Things at GOSH are rolling forward steadily with the new research, and the new centre has established its standard operating procedure. There's nothing new going on at King's and, for all intents and purposes, his marriage is functioning normally. Why can't he escape the feeling that he's chasing his own tail, that his brain is gnawing on its own thoughts like some mythical cannibalistic creature absorbing its offspring in the womb? Things are so stable that sometimes he even struggles to find Edgar things to do. In fact, he might have to cut his PA's hours since having him in the sitting room just drinking tea makes John visibly uneasy still. _I do wish he'd stop prancing about like a rooster whenever there was another attractive male nearby_. John and Edgar are, if not quite friends, then at least on very good terms these days, but there is no changing certain habits of John's, and mostly Sherlock finds his restrained possessiveness quite attractive and flattering, especially after all these years.

He's just annoyed by everything these days. It's not John, it's him.

Waiting for him in the appointment room is the seventh patient of the day — he is juggling a double load since Anderson is off sick after fracturing his wrist while roller-blading with his children. _Perhaps whoever that brainless berk of an excuse for a surgeon has summoned to his chambers could turn out to be an interesting case?_ To challenge himself, Sherlock hasn't read the notes before seeing his colleague's turfed patients. Most likely there will be very few scientifically salient findings on offer today since Anderson is somehow content focussing his practice on bread-and-butter operative grinding such as spinal fusions and disc prolapses. Sherlock wonders if he should rush the afternoon's appointments a bit, see if the latest data from GOSH would engage his brain in something that wasn't connected to nicotine or wanting to hurtle things at walls. John would tell him he needs a holiday, but that notion is based on John falsely assuming every problem can be fixed by a drink by a pool just _relaxing_. Such a toxic idea for someone like Sherlock, whose skills have never included emptying his mind and just enjoying the moment.

His heart rate has picked up; he can hear it whooshing in his ears as the full tide of nicotine hits. His fingertips tingle momentarily which means he's achieved the dose he wants but hasn't gone overboard since the sensation disappears quickly. Hopefully the headache that hits when he overdoes it won't appear. The edge of his irritation has blunted, but he doesn't feel too lethargic. After pocketing the cigarette, he makes sure his white shirt is neatly tucked into his trousers. Sherlock also unbuttons his royal blue jacket — _undoubtedly_ _John would call the shade erroneously navy,_ _God bless the clueless_ — since he'll be sitting down for a few hours, sighs, and let himself back in with the key fob pilfered from a janitor. This stairwell is only supposed to be used in an emergency; ensuring that he can drag himself through the rest of his duties today must qualify as such.

  
_____________

The sun is setting when he finally gets home. He and Marie had managed to squeeze all the appointments through in three hours, but that had meant leaving the paperwork until after the last patient was escorted out. The offerings had been better than Sherlock had anticipated, and he had ended up instructing Marie to book four of the patients on his own OR list instead of dividing them up evenly between all the neurosurgeons in the unit. Two of them had spinal tumours with mildly intriguing anatomy, and he hadn't operated on spinal cord growths for some time. The remaining two had posterior fossa tumours, an anatomic area in which his skills are so far beyond Anderson's that you couldn't even see the sorry bugger in the proverbial horizon from the rear-view mirror.

Sherlock takes a glass of water from the kitchen to the sitting room where he can hear John moving around. There's jazz playing from his laptop; Sherlock wishes his husband would use the audio system in the sitting room instead, since the laptop's audio easily gets tinny and shrill, especially in the higher registers, making Sherlock physically cringe. _Why can't John listen to music properly?_

A glint of metal on the bed catches Sherlock's attention. He recognises the item as John's ceremonial Sandhurst sword, manufactured by WKC Solingen in Germany. Sherlock has made a point of knowing these details; they seem important to John and it doesn't seem like brain clutter since good craftsmanship interests Sherlock, too. When the Wilkinson sword factory had closed in 2003, WKC had won the bidding war. While it would be quite useless in battle, the sword is still a fine creation. There is a wide, pierced steel guard etched with the Royal cipher, stingray skin-covered handle, and a stainless-steel blade instead of some cheaper option so it would last longer.

Just as John had possibly believed his military career would.

Sherlock knows that, before he had arrived in John's life, the man had not been someone who was prone to committing himself to anything long-term — be that relationships or job positions that might move him higher in the internal ranking order of the NHS. John had lived his life always one foot out the door, and it was the most wondrous and extraordinary thing that Sherlock had been the one to change that.

"Hello, you," greets John.

In Sherlock's estimation, he looks relaxed and seems to be in a good mood. John gives him a wet, five-o'clock-shadow-raspy peck on the cheek, which Sherlock must rub at to make the irritating aftersensation to go away. John chuckles at his likely indignant expression.

A microfiber cloth sits on the table next to the sword, which has been pulled out of its leather scabbard. John starts polishing it while Sherlock glances around the room. Instantly, he notices John's parade uniform having been taken out of its garment bag and hung on the wardrobe door. Sherlock knows his husband hasn't worn it in years — did not even wear it for their wedding, despite how favourably Sherlock had reacted to the idea. John had said that it didn't feel right, not after he'd been invalided home. _Why is it out now?_

Since the resolution of all great mysteries can be accelerated with tea, Sherlock flits back to the kitchen to make some. Waiting for the water to come to a boil, he wonders if a part of John still believes that getting shot is somehow a failure and not a risk any military assignment carries with no attached shame. Reaching the rank of Captain and a Military Clinical Director — meaning a senior army medical consultant — is no small feat, regardless of how such a service career may have ended. And is not getting injured in battle a perfectly honourable discharge?

Some of John's career woes and complaints and associated anger issues have been connected to Sherlock in a way Sherlock has never quite understood. Doctor Pichler and John have together tried to convince him that they were not his _fault_ , but those things are something he prefers not to think about. When Sherlock had shown up at Bastion, John had acted as though he didn't want him there — didn't think Sherlock understood or could endure that way of life and the conditions there, and he didn't want Sherlock interacting with the people in his circle. It wasn't because he wanted to keep secret his sexual orientation — after all, he had put up photos of the two of them together in visible spots in his office. No, it was because the military was John's territory, a part he had clearly wanted to keep away and separate from Sherlock because there, he wasn't standing in anyone's shadow.

John accepts Sherlock's offer of a steaming mug of Darjeeling as he surveys his handiwork in the gleaming silvery sword now sitting by its scabbard on a chair by the bed.

Polishing a sword that has never seen action and which had seemed in pristine condition even before John had given it a good scrubbing seems like an almost meditative act. When John disappears into the loo, Sherlock picks up the sword and admires the details. _Every soldier and surgeon needs good instruments_. Though this one is ornamental, it still carries the key design features which had made it a formidable weapon.

The toilet flushes, and soon John joins him in the bedroom again. "If you've left fingerprints on that, there will be trouble," he playfully chides, delivering a gentle slap on Sherlock's buttock before he slides the sword back into its scabbard and puts it in the wardrobe.

Sherlock pretends to bristle, then gives John his tea, which Sherlock had poured into his RAMC mug. _Seemed appropriate._ "Have you had your uniform dry-cleaned?" he asks, then adds shyly: "is there a particular reason?"

John looks at him oddly — as if surprised by the question. "Yeah, there is. I need to prepare for that big reunion. Five classes at the same time, with talks and a gala dinner."

To Sherlock's knowledge, John hasn't attended a single Sandhurst reunion before, but now, he appears excited. John is speaking as though Sherlock should already be aware of this event; maybe he has mentioned it and Sherlock hadn’t been listening.

"I booked a room at Pennyhill Park,” John says, “it's a five-star pretty close to the academy. It's at Easter, so we've got the Friday and Monday off. Could do a breakfast, see a bit of the area and then head back for the Friday evening arrival festivities after a champagne cream tea at the hotel?" John suggests.

"Sounds delightful," Sherlock replies curtly. He's not really interested in John's travel arrangements. "You better not rub my nose in it while I get bored on call."

"You're not on call; I checked."

"I might as well volunteer."

John frowns so hard he is practically squinting. "Sherlock, wh––– Oh God. You really thought I'd go alone, didn't you? Didn't you read the invitation I left on the kitchen table?"

That explains why he assumed Sherlock was already privy to the news. "You know I ignore the mail. It's just bills and other nonsense." Sherlock coils his fingers around his own mug. "Why would I have read through an invitation addressed to you?"

"Because it's a plus one. Like I said, they're going big this year to celebrate the big academy renovations. No, I don't intend to go alone; I thought we could make a nice weekend getaway of it."

"What am I to do at the hotel, then, while you traipse around in your parade blues?"

John's hand halts halfway to taking the mug to his lips. "You wouldn't _be_ at the hotel. For someone as genius as you are, you really can be quite thick. You will be at this reunion, at Sandhurst, with _me_ ," John announces.

"As your––?"

"Ye-es," John draws the word out, "As _mine_."

"Very possessive of you."

"You like that."

"It's just that you have made it clear before that you do not wish to include me in that part of your life."

John tilts his head inquisitively and while his eyes had glinted with mischief a mere moment ago, an undercurrent of worry now floods in.

Sherlock's throat tightens. He has deduced that John's changing expression means that they are headed firmly towards a conversation which has the potential to be emotional and thus difficult to navigate. All he can do is hope that John will be that navigator while he bounces from wall to wall trying to communicate what he really means while trying to manage John's expectations.

"When, exactly, do you think I made such a thing clear?" John asks. His tone is careful, yet urgent.

"At Bastion and after."

"Sit down," John prompts, all the playfulness now drained away from his features. He pats the bed and takes a seat by that spot.

Sherlock arranges himself onto the bed, close but not touching John. His fingers long to seek comfort from the warmth of his husband, but he's afraid he's done or said something wrong and it hurts when John recoils physically from him at such times.

Thankfully, John's right hand soon covered his own and gives his fingers a squeeze. "I'll admit it," John says; "I'll admit that the fact that I'm bi is not something I advertised or cultivated during training and my first deployments. But that's not what this is about. At Bastion, I never lied, not even by omission, who and of what gender my beloved husband was and is. So, don't think I don't want people to know about you. The reason I pulled away is that war is a bit like medicine — if someone hasn't been there, hasn't lived that life, they don't really know what it's like, and the comments and placations and attempts at consolation from them just rub you up the wrong way. You could cope in that place and understood much better than I gave you credit for at the time; not everyone could or would jump on a military plane, but you did, so that you could be there _in_ Afghanistan with me. I wasn't ready to talk about that stuff; some of what made it so hard was connected to you in a way I knew would hurt you even if you'd done nothing wrong. And I suspected that you were angry, too; angry at me for accepting that deployment. You'd never join the service, so from your perspective it might be difficult to understand would anyone else might do that. And I get that, I really do."

Sherlock is surprised at his husband's amicable, calm tone. John has clearly thought about these things a lot, even processed them into a form he could present verbally in a rational manner.

John continues, "I realised eventually that you don't need to understand why I joined; I'm the one who has to make my peace with that. You've always still seemed to respect how much the service means to me, and I couldn't have got through the aftermath of Afghanistan without you. Plus, you do clearly appreciate the uniforms," John teases and Sherlock goes slightly red in the face.

John clears his throat and wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist, tugging him closer. "If you come along, you'll have to promise to behave even if there are lots of handsome officers walking around."

"I have no interest in any other officers besides you. It's not the uniform, John; it's you in it. You won't remove it until we get back to the hotel, will you?"

John grins. "I wouldn't do that to you. In all seriousness: Sherlock… I really, absolutely, with all my heart, want you there. Will you come?"

"Yes," Sherlock agrees eagerly. This is the only good thing that's happened to him all week. Maybe all month.

John delivers a kiss right in front of his ear. "I'll give you a private tour of the academy," he promises, winking.

"Your tone sounds as though it might include me on my knees in a dark corner."

"You said it, not me. Outrageous. Wouldn't want to ruin a clean uniform like that, would I?"

"I wouldn't be stupid enough to leave evidence behind," Sherlock replies deadpan. "But what should _I_ wear?"

"Wear what you want. There's no etiquette for civilians except for the banquet dinner, which is black tie or Mess Dress."

"You explained the Friday schedule. What about Saturday?"

John rises, goes to the chair and gives the scabbard a good wiping with a well-wrung damp cloth that had been sitting on the bedside cabinet. "There's a meet-and-greet with cadets graduating this Spring, a lecture the topic of which eludes me right now, a tour of the re-opened museum and then a dinner in the Old College function rooms after a few hours' break. Sunday is for class reunions, and the whole thing ends early so people coming from far away have time to get home."

"Have you polished your shoes?" Sherlock asks. “You often neglect to service the ones you wear to work.”

"My shoes are fine, Sherlock. I'm going to take a bath; I'm really bloody tired. You've not used up all the ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet, have you?"

"You look tired," Sherlock says, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of John in the dim lighting. "Did the antibiotic clear last week's tonsillitis properly?"

"I'm still not sure it was even bacterial. I know I should have gone to have the cultures done, but it always just comes back with Strep so Occy Health agreed to just write me up with the penicillin. I'm fine; it was just a long day."

"Are you going to leave the uniform out of the bag?"

"Why?"

"No reason."

"The reunion is over two months away; wouldn't want it to get dusty. Just needed to check I can still squeeze into it."

"My tailor can make all the necessary alterations."

"I'm sure he could, but there’s no need. I’ve not gone that soft in the middle."

"Still, it’s been years since you wore it so a once-over by someone skilled wouldn’t hurt. I'll need an appointment for a new suit, anyway — you could tag along."

"What's wrong with the one you picked up only last week?"

 _Honestly, John_. "I can't pair that shade of blue with any of the RAMC uniforms. It would clash _hideously_."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words from your friendly neighbourhood fandom anaesthetist: I don't care where that nicotine comes from — addiction is bad for you. Best never to even start smoking.


	2. Under Pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears I've not been the only one by far to miss these medical husbands. Thank you for the heartfelt welcome back.

Sherlock hasn't seen his therapist in half a year. Though things at GOSH have been busy before winding down in the last few months, there have been no particular social challenges after the initial phase of planning the centre. He and John are fine, so there has been no particular need for a therapist. Sherlock has even argued with himself whether he needs to call her _his_ therapist anymore — surely, there are others who are more in need of her services.

He's not even sure why he'd booked this appointment. He shouldn't need reassurance for anything and is never keen to have his thought pecked at, picked apart by others. She had, admittedly, been useful in the past in getting to the bottom of things when Sherlock's motives or what bothers him are left a mystery even to himself.

Something _is_ bothering him, and he's not certain whether it's the same thing that's making him irritable at work and reluctant to do anything worthwhile at home. He'd assumed that John's invitation to join him at Sandhurst for the reunion would cheer him up, give him something to look forward to, but the closer that occasion gets, the more ambivalent he feels about it. He'd gone to pick up his new suit just before heading to Harley Street. He had chosen Gieves & Hawkes in favour of his usual tailor — one with a more modern approach — because they are well-known traditional couturiers of military personnel. Sherlock had reasoned that they should be experts in designing something that would pair well with ceremonial RAMC apparel. He and John had acquired their wedding attire from Gieves, and Sherlock had been very pleased with the results. This time, Sherlock had been even more particular about the styles and details he found acceptable; the last thing he would want is to look like his stuffy older brother who would buy even his pants at Gieves in tweed if they sold such a thing.

The indigo wool three-piece he had been dressed in by an attendant in front of a mirrors forty-five minutes ago, now carried in a garment bag, had not disappointed. Every detail was executed beautifully in understated style, and the cut is particularly flattering — not as tight as some of his other suits, but the waistcoat tightens up the silhouette underneath the notch-lapelled jacket and the red tie will be a startling contrast that will undoubtedly surprise and delight John since it matches the rounded, dark red lapels of the uniform John will be wearing for the dinner. The tailor had even held up an RAMC Mess Dress next to him and he had to agree the pairing was exquisite. So why does he feel more and more unsure about the purchase with each step he takes away from the establishment and towards Doctor Pichler's private practice?

The therapist greets him with her usual open but polite smile and a handshake. She lets him take his time settling into the appointment room. He can't decide where to sit and takes up a position standing by the sofa he usually occupies. The therapist arranges herself into her usual armchair, pen and pad ready, knees and ankles together and slanted to the side just as royals are instructed to sit. _Good deportment will out_ , as Mycroft — ever the snob — would say in a most approving tone. Sherlock doesn't know anything about her family except that she is Austrian but a Cambridge graduate. She retains only the slightest Austrian lilt, which means she must've acquired her natural-sounding upper-class accent at an earlier age. Sherlock thinks it likely she has attended private schools in England.

On a whim, he unzips the garment bag and pulls out the suit. "Will this do, do you think?"

Her brows rise. "What's the occasion?"

"John has invited me to accompany him to an officers' reunion at Sandhurst Academy."

"That's wonderful! Of course, that suit will do; I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you in it."

Sherlock realises her opinion is likely useless since there is no guarantee she is more an expert on the protocols of the Royal Army Medical Corps or the specific tastes of one member thereof. Why is he wasting his time at this appointment?

He tucks the suit back into the back and drops onto the sofa, feeling like a balloon deflating.

"It appears my answer didn't satisfy you," she replies, her smile having waned in lieu of an inquisitive, sharp look.

"Whatever I wear needs to be good enough that… that John will notice. But not so that I would stand out. Though standing out in a favourable manner visually might be a good idea, yet it draws more attention and––" he trails out, frowning.

"Let's back up a bit," she suggests. "It's important for you to look presentable at the reunion. Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? John is there to represent himself, to represent his regiment, to see people he considers important. He'll want to look good, especially after having been invalided out of his last deployment."

"Yes, John may feel such pressures. What about you?"

"The way I conduct myself will reflect upon him so of course I must do my best."

"You always dress with care, do you not? And you have the funds to invest to high-quality, tailored clothing?"

"Thankfully, yes."

"Are you usually confident in your acquisitions?"

"Yes. I know the materials in which I am comfortable, I know my physical assets and how to emphasise them, and with the help of well-trained tailors I know I can achieve what I want."

"Yet you are now seeking the approval of a very different professional for your attire," she points out. "Why not ask John?"

"He has relatively little dress sense compared to me."

"I will take that as a compliment, then," she chuckles. "Though I would advise not to say that to John."

"Oh, he knows; I have informed him of this on numerous occasions."

She sighs, the twitch upward of her lip recognisable as slightly amused still. "All the more reason why I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."

"Why would you think that? Of course, I have things to worry about! When have I ever failed to do or say something uncouth when socialising? Something that will embarrass John."

"You have seemed to worry about that less and less."

"Yes, for the usual sort of pointless things John wants us to attend with his friends. This is more important, and he knows it."

"Why is that so?"

"He tried to explain to me why seeing me at Bastion made him uneasy and why he didn't want me to interact with his fellow servicemen there. He considers the RAMC his territory, his environment to excel in. He guards that territory rather fiercely; doesn't want me in there because somehow, my presence produces some inane professional inferiority complex in him."

"And now he has invited you to something very deeply connected to his military service."

"Yes, and as rationally and convincingly he explained his motives, I have the nagging feeling this will be a _test_."

"A test of what? What do you think are the best- and worst-case scenarios here?"

"That I embarrass him. Anger him. Disappoint him. That he is reminded of all the reasons why he can't have a normal life and has regrets when I break this thing that he considers so important in his life by being the elephant in a china shop he thinks I always am."

"And the best-case scenario?"

"That I get through it, somehow."

"No, I don't think so."

"Excuse me?" he asks indignantly. Does Pichler think it's impossible that he should achieve even that? He shakes his head. It appears he has a snowball's chance in hell of getting through this with his marriage intact.

"The best-case scenario is that you will see John carry the same pride he projects when he has spoken to me about you. That the two of you will have a lovely weekend together, perhaps even talk some more about his service and what it means to him and what it feels like to receive your visible support and company on that occasion. Have you considered that instead of jeopardising his reputation, John might be thinking that he will benefit from having your company at Sandhurst? He may be having conflicted feelings about attending for the reasons you very astutely analysed just now. Has he been back there after his final deployment?"

"No. This is the first time I've seen him take out his uniform from where he'd stuffed it in the back of the wardrobe."

"He wants you there, Sherlock. He hasn't shared those things so much with you before, but now he has made a significant effort to do so."

"He made a very good case for it and left me in no doubt at all whether he wanted me there. He said so, several times, and at first, I was looking forward to going. But now that the date is getting closer I just…"

"You're getting nervous, and when we get nervous, we want to run."

"I should be excited about going. The thought of seeing John in his service role for an entire weekend, seeing him that way when I couldn't see it in Afghanistan, is something I look forward to. But I just keep thinking about myself, not him, and I find I am not able to stop those thoughts."

Doctor Pichler nods. "Ruminative thinking. We know you are prone to that, and that it can easily draw in old confidence issues."

She shifts in her seat. "Are any of your worries connected to your gender? Do you feel as though you must be particularly presentable because of it?"

"I have considered this. Undoubtedly, I will stand out by default since inevitably, same-sex partners will be a minority, if not a rarity. But John did not conceal our male-male partnership when he was in Afghanistan, even tacked up photos of us in his office. I'm sure he did not exactly advertise it, but… This will be different, of course; at Sandhurst, the focus will be on people and not on surviving a war. But he's still a decorated Captain-rank officer. I am not expecting to face overt bigotry, and I wouldn't lose sleep over some idiot commenting on the topic."

"Do you think John would be more bothered by it?"

"Perhaps. But he must have considered the possibility and decided to rise above it by inviting me."

"That is very well analysed," she commends. "You should trust that thought, trust John to keep you safe in that environment."

His eyes flash with surprised dismay. "What do you mean, 'safe'? I don't need protection from him. As I just said, we are not headed to a war zone."

"Not what I meant. Let me present my theory: it is easier for you to recognise that you fear disappointing John by looking less than perfect and behaving in a way that will reflect badly on him. But what may also worry you is what you always worry about in new social situations: how people will react to you and how they express the opinions they form of you. The worst-case scenario, to be more specific, is that you would face a two-front attack: John's disappointment and negativity from others in an environment very foreign to you."

He scoffs. "Is that supposed to motivate me to attend this thing?"

"Could you relay how, precisely, John phrased his invitation and explanation about the reunion?"

Sherlock recounts the conversation.

"According to what you've just told me, John is showing profound awareness of how alien the army environment is for you and has expressed confidence in your ability to cope based on what happened in Afghanistan. What he was telling you is that he's not taking you begrudgingly, that he's not taking you there to test you. Instead, he's taking you there because he's proud of you and wants you there by his side. You should wear whatever you feel comfortable in and I'm sure John will enjoy and appreciate your choice."

How is it that he finds it easier to believe what she tells him than it is to believe John or his own treacherous thinking?

"He makes fun of me about his uniform," Sherlock complains.

"How so?"

"He thinks I have a particular… penchant for it. He seems convinced that seeing more men than just him in uniform would be a major incentive for me to attend the reunion. I detest the insinuation that I would be sexually interested in other officers."

"I don't think that's quite what he meant," Pichler says neutrally. "Do your sexual fantasies involve uniforms? It's not uncommon for people of any gender or orientation. Have you shared such fantasies with him?"

"No, I have not." He doesn't want to specify whether he's answering the question about the existence of such fantasies or saying that he's not told John any such thing. Sex has been discussed many times during these therapy appointments, but delving into the realm of fantasy feels particularly invasive. "He's never worn any of his dress uniforms in my presence; all I've seen are photographs. I may have commented a few times on his appearance in such images, that's all. "

"He's paid attention to that, then. Does he seem to find that flattering?"

"Who wouldn't be flattered if they are told they look good in what they're wearing?"

"Of course. But John seems to have made a certain deduction. Or, he's just teasing, based on certain fetish stereotypes associated with gay men."

"I'm not some _fetishist_ ," Sherlock comments in distaste.

"A fetish is a clinical psychological term for sexual interest directed at an object or part of the body, that's all."

"Doesn't it also mean statues supposedly imbibed with magical powers or possessed by spirits?"

"In anthropology, yes, but I can assure you it is also a legitimate psychological term."

"And psychology is hardly a _science_ ," he complains.

Doctor Pichler sidesteps that, and explains further, "Many people have fantasies and behaviours that could fall under that term, and as long as they don't involve illegal things or behaviour that hurts or disturbs others, fetishes are perfectly fine. Sharing those thoughts with a partner can enhance trust and add variety to sex. Uniforms are associated with enhanced masculinity and authority, and their design emphasises certain male physical features. Also involved are weaponry and leather, both common objects of sexual interest."

The glare Sherlock gives her is an equal mixture or disbelief and dismissal. "I am not _like that_ , nor am I in any way repressed by my sexual desires, even if I'm not jumping at the chance to embrace some submissive bondage identity or whatever it is that you're insinuating."

"Have you ever asked John what kinds of sexual fantasies he has? Who knows, perhaps some of them might pair quite nicely with yours," Doctor Pichler suggests in a light tone.

Sherlock now regrets deeply making that joke about fellatio in some back corridor at Sandhurst. _What must John think of me?_

"I can tell this conversation is making you uncomfortable."

"How astute of you." He crosses his arms. He is most decidedly not a prude, but discussing this is… he can't even find the right words to describe the exquisite mortification. It's not helping his nerves about Sandhurst that there seems to be a possibility that John anticipates having some fun at the expense of his alleged military fetish. _God forbid_.

Hand on heart, if Sherlock thinks about John in that uniform, he is very tempted to do certain things to the man. John always looks good in a suit, and he would look particularly fine in a uniform. What of it? Nothing wrong with enjoying the sight of one’s husband, is there? Why must psychologists and psychiatrists always exaggerate things?

"Let me backtrack a bit, because something we discussed earlier might even connect to this."

 _Can't we leave this sordid topic be?_ Sherlock wonders and grits his teeth.

"John has booked a nice hotel and planned a program that should be nice for the both of you. He's taking you into account in planning the reunion trip, and the way you described him commenting on your and his uniform might point to him wanting to encourage you to enjoy all aspects of that weekend. He might even think he's making amends for the way you felt his anger alienated the two of you in Bastion. I might be reading too much into this by saying so, but I would consider it a possibility."

"Some things he said did seem to be an attempt to dispel certain impression he'd created with his behaviour in Bastion, yes."

"Good. This makes it likely that he wants to be in charge in the sense that he wants to make sure you enjoy your stay and feel comfortable at Sandhurst."

"I don't want him to force himself to tolerate my social floundering out of some misguided sense of obligation."

"Yet he expressed explicitly that he thinks you conducted yourself commendably in Afghanistan."

"It was exhausting. I will put in my best effort for him, but he should know by now how much it takes out of me to try to anticipate what people expect."

"I think he does know, Sherlock. He might be just as nervous as you are about how you will feel about the trip and how it will go. Your presence could, perhaps, lend him confidence as well to be in that environment as an openly bisexual man."

"I don't know about that." Certainly John seems to have gone through some sort of process with his sexual identity within the time Sherlock has known him, but he is confident that John fearing homophobic comments isn't the key cause of all this anxiety. He worries about what people will think about John's choice in partner because of what he is like; his gender is a marginal part of that concern in comparison to him now knowing how to function around other people.

"Perhaps he worries, just as you do, about disappointing his partner," Doctor Pichler suggests carefully.

"He could never disappoint me in the same way I disappoint him. He works hard to compensate for my faults."

"Then let him. Perhaps even tell him about the things you feel nervous about? Let him do this for you, Sherlock. I think that allowing yourself to rely on his partnership would be good for you, and to accept that it is in no way a failure on your part. We all want and need the support of our partners when we face new situations and stressful social interaction. You're not the only one worried about encountering such scenarios, and one doesn't need to be on the autism spectrum to be wary in that way. This can be a very good experience in terms of ridding yourself of some of your oldest, most resilient fears."

It makes sense when she phrases it like that. She often phrases things in ways that don't occur to Sherlock.

"There was something you said earlier at which my ears perked up," she says, "you said something about a normal life.

"I meant the kind of life he would have expected before meeting me."

"And did he not choose this life, a life with you, voluntarily? Has he not stuck with it through thick and thin?"

"He did and has, yes."

"That's why you don't have to keep stacking unfair expectations on yourself."

"Because I can't meet them?"

"No — because nobody could. You don't love John because he's perfect, do you?"

"No. I love him because he's John."

"And you are entitled to expect the same from him. You deserve the same from him — even when you can't strive for perfection, either. That's what in sickness and in health in wedding vows means, Sherlock: it is _especially_ when we are at our lowest, when we're having a difficult time, that we can rely on the dedication and love of our partners. At least that is how it should be."  
  
  
  



	3. Wrecked

Sherlock wakes up at dawn, having tossed and turned in bed all night. Whether an important event is a positive or a negative one, he's always had trouble sleeping before such big days. He'd glanced at the digital alarm clock on his bedside cabinet several times during the six hours he'd managed to force himself to lie down, huffing in frustration each time that the hour had been too early still to get up and start preparing for leaving the house.

John is still dozing when he finally decides that seven in the morning on a Saturday simply _must_ constitute an acceptable time to bound out of bed and into the bathroom to shave and wash and style his hair. He must take considerable care today to look good, though he's certain his visage will pale in comparison to the sight of John looking handsome in his uniform. Discussing his worries about this Sandhurst trip with Pichler seems to have brought Sherlock a modicum of calm and rekindled his enthusiasm, which had been momentarily flattened by dread that he might ruin it for his husband, somehow. John inviting him into this world voluntarily… it shouldn't matter as much as it does. Sherlock knows he should have more confidence in John's fondness and the equality of their partnership, but it appears that the ghosts of Afghanistan have not entirely left. _This weekend, if all goes well, shall be their final exorcism_.

They will stay at a hotel, take part in things arranged by Sandhurst; no need for Edgar's assistance. Sherlock had given him the weekend off consequently from Thursday onwards, and the man had positively beamed at the news. He had explained to Sherlock that a long weekend would mean that he could spend some time in Paris, even attend a catwalk show of his favourite designer for the Spring fashion week. A friend from his time at Balenciaga had offered him a ticket, but he hadn't wanted to presume he could get time off. "Go. Enjoy yourself. We certainly will," Sherlock had told his PA.

That is what he now determinedly reiterates to himself while shaving. Sometimes, when John has been very exasperated or angry at his reticence for socialising, John has told him that he just needs to try harder. Sherlock knows better than to try to summon positive feelings out of thin air, but he has at least made a vow to focus on John and not his own uncertainties and doubts and fears during this weekend. There are plans in place, and Sherlock knows what to expect because he's interrogated John about all the minutiae. Sherlock detests rapid changes of plans unless they involve medical decision-making at work. There, he likes testing his skills by having to improvise within the rules of clinical medicine. At home and when dealing with people socially, he needs a framework. He needs to know what's going to happen and what is expected of him.

After switching off the bathroom light and making his way to the kitchen, he's irritated to find no scent of coffee wafting into his nostrils and no sight of John. A glance at his watch tells Sherlock John's alarm clock must have gone off — they had both set it for half-past seven.

Sherlock makes coffee, pops two pieces of the nice sage and onion loaf John had brought home two days earlier from Waitrose into the toaster. He wonders if he should toast two more but decides against it since John likes his as hot as possible. Sherlock takes out the butter and three jams from the fridge, unsure which one John has been favouring this month. He's not sure honey is the best match for this particular bread, so he opts for just butter. After some pointless occupational health check a few months earlier, John had brought home a tub of one of those cholesterol-lowering vegetable stanol ester spreads, and it had tasted like a melted plastic cup. Sherlock had dramatically dumped it in the bin, and John had also admitted that the taste had not compared to real butter.

By the time there's only twenty minutes left before they have to start driving, John still hasn't emerged from the bedroom. Sherlock goes in to investigate; the lump underneath the duvet confirms that his husband is failing to adhere to their plans.

"John!" he compels. "We must _leave_!"

There's hoarse muttering from underneath all the bedding. John has pulled even Sherlock's half of the duvet on top of himself.

" _John_. You need to get ready," Sherlock demands, tugging at the foot of the duvet.

There's some throaty, quiet cursing and John drags himself up to a sitting position. He looks bleary-eyed, forehead glistening with sweat, and a shudder goes through him, and when he swallows, he does it meticulously as though needing to concentrate on the act.

"Get up," Sherlock tells him. "We need to leave in…" he checks his Breitling, a gift from Mycroft, "…twelve minutes."

John gives him a miserable look. "Sherlock, I… I don't think I'm up to it. I'm sorry." He's shivering and his eyes have a glassy look telling of fever.

 _No_. _Unacceptable_. "What's wrong with you?"

"Bloody throat again."

Sherlock makes note of the quality of John's speech: it's not as articulate as usual. He sits down on the edge of the bed, studies John's face, takes his pulse from his pounding carotid, touches the back of his hand to a clammy forehead. "You're burning up." How had he missed there being such a human-sized hot water bottle in bed?

"Yeah," John admits with a sigh.

"What else?"

"Swallowing hurts like fuck." John tries to clear his throat, then winces.

"When did this start?"

"Sore throat's been on and off again, but I thought I was fine yesterday evening, just a bit tired. Got a lot worse during the night."

Sherlock runs his fingers down both sides of John's neck from underneath his jaw to the suprasternal notch, then towards the nape. "Enlarged lymph nodes. Any sudden pain or difficulty in turning your head?"

John tests this. "No."

"Give me a minute," Sherlock tells him, and John slumps back against the mattress. He looks thoroughly wrung out.

Neither of them keeps a very comprehensive medical kit at home, though they’ve discussed putting one together. Sherlock rummages around the broom closet for a flashlight and fetches a spoon from the kitchen. 

He tries his best to push away his disappointment. Since they are often on call, joint free weekends are a luxury that should never be taken for granted. Instead of enjoying this one at Sandhurst with John, he's going to have to endure his partner being under the weather. _There will probably be no sex_ , he thinks to himself with a huff. John can be coaxed for a bit of a tumble on most occasions, but not when he's ill. They haven't had intimate relations lately, which Sherlock had hoped to remedy that at the hotel. In fact, he'd conscientiously not indulged in relieving himself in the shower. Meditating on what John would look like later in the day in his full Mess Dress had produced a rather persistent hard-on.

Once back in the bedroom, he grabs John's wrist and drags him back up into a sitting position. "Open your mouth."

John does it slowly, painstakingly.

"Jaw lock?" Sherlock asks, eyes narrowing. It could signal an abscess limiting the movement of the joint.

"Not really. Just… it kind of stretches something back there," John croaks and grimaces.

Sherlock peers into his mouth, gently pressing the tongue down with the handle of the spoon. The muscles at the back of John's mouth try to contract several times; he is working hard not to gag. His throat looks painfully, angrily red, and his soft palate is only slightly swollen on the left side but bulging significantly on the right, making the uvula look as if it's wedged tight between two walls of flesh. There isn't a lot of airway space left in the back of the mouth cavity. The tonsils are coated with a yellowish film, and there is bacterial halitosis which makes Sherlock crinkle his nose. He hopes he won't catch whatever this is since he's not wearing a mask and had kissed John last night.

"Looks painful," he comments. "I don't like the asymmetry of your soft palate. I would prefer an ENT had a look at it. We should go to King's." He removes the spoon and turns off the flashlight.

"Christ," John mutters and drops back down onto the bed, dragging the duvet back on. "Get me something first, ibuprofen or whatever you can find."

They don't keep stronger painkillers in the house, and Sherlock now curses that fact. He wouldn't want to rely on just milder stuff if his throat looked like that, nor would he want to swallow a tablet. John's breathing seems to be alright, and although he sounds like he's talking with a hot potato in his mouth — _unsurprising, considering the swelling and mucosal swelling likely extending down to epiglottis level_ — there doesn't seem to be an acute airway compromise. "I'll get you paracetamol and ketoprofen and get us an Uber. I'll also find out who's on call for ENT."

If it's someone whose skills Sherlock doesn't appreciate, they'll reroute to St Mary's.

Once John has managed to swallow down two tablets with half a glass of water, Sherlock watches him like a hawk as he pulls on the first set of clothes he can find. He has rarely seen John this sick — getting shot notwithstanding, the only occasion this reminds him of is the Dengue fever in Malosa, and that's a memory Sherlock most decidedly does not want to revisit. _Not right now, not ever._ There had been times when he had truly feared he'd lose––

 _Get it together_ , he commands himself. _This is just a strep throat, possibly a peritonsillar abscess. He's not dying._ He snaps his back straight and helps John into his long wool peacoat.

"I called King's; Collings is on site at the ENT ward and he promised to wait until we get there. It should spare us from having to deal with his junior staff at A&E first before being sent inevitably to the ENT unit." Normally, urgent ENT patients would have to be first assessed at one of the Accident & Emergency units, but being King’s College physicians allow the two of them to bypass the usual patient flow. Sherlock knows he can do just as good a job with this initial assessment as any of the ENT trainees could. In fact, he suspects he might even be better at it than they are, so there is no need to waste time tiring John further by taking him to be examined by someone who'll just defer to their consultant.

That consultant on call today is Marius Collings — a thirty-eight-year-old Johannesburg-born ENT surgeon with whom Sherlock has collaborated occasionally when a patient's tumour has grown through a skull bone and thus extending to both their specialties' territories. He finds Collings skilled, meticulous and self-effacing. _I can deal with him_.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John tells him as they make their way to the kerb. He gets winded and very sweaty just going down the stairs; it'll be some time before the meds kick in. "I know this mucks up your weekend."

" _Our_ weekend, but never mind that. You didn't bring this on yourself."

________________

Just as he'd explained to John, instead of heading for the King's main site's A&E department, Sherlock has set up as the Uber destination The Princess Royal University Hospital. A part of King's College Hospital Trust, it is the site of most of the Trust's ENT services, as well as various other specialty units that couldn't fit into the King's main campus.

John continues to shiver with fever as they make their way to the outpatient clinic.

There, a nurse is waiting for them at the entrance of the empty outpatient clinic. It signals that this isn't where they normally look at urgent cases, so Collings must have made some arrangements and asked her to meet them at the locked door. "I'll let Mister Collings know you're here. Anything I can get you?" she offers as the two men follow her down the corridor.

Sherlock dismisses her with a flick of his wrist. "Unless you can deliver opiates, there's very little use for you."

"Don't be rude," John rasps. "Hell, it hurts."

"I thought you looked a little worse for wear on Tuesday than you usually are after being on call," Sherlock tells him as they take a seat.

"Like I said, the swallowing pain's been on and off all week." John is looking hopefully down the corridor, obviously antsy to get this over and done with so he could collapse back into bed at home.

"When were you last tested for Strep A? Even in carriers thought to be asymptomatic, the infection seems to be able to cause low-grade chronic inflammation." Sherlock had done some PubMed-browsing during the car ride.

"I think I had the latest swab last year? I've just assumed since then that, when I have a flare-up, it's Strep A and asked someone to prescribe penicillin. Usually, it works, but I haven't even considered it this week because apparently this is the new normal for me. And last night I just assumed that I'd maybe caught some new cold." John coughs wetly, then tries to clear his throat.

Sherlock is on his feet the moment Collings appears at the door. He's a muscular man with thick, straight blond hair reaching close to his shoulders. On his OR days, he tends to tie it in a ponytail.

"Sherlock," Collings nods, then focuses on John and offers his hand. "And you must be the patient."

John climbs to his feet and takes the hand offered. "Watson, anaesthesia at King's. Haven't gassed for ENT since I was a reg––."

Impatient, Sherlock cuts in. "This is John Watson, age thirty-nine, no allergies and no regular medications; occasional use of one-month courses of pantoprazole for stress reflux. Few prior ENT complains before last year; since an acute tonsillitis in November, he's had at least three other episodes of throat pain necessitating antibiotics and at least one of them has presented with cultures positive for Strep A with the last twelve months. Prior to that, there have been several culture-positive tonsillites. He's experienced intermittent pain when swallowing this week, and there's been generalised malaise for at least four days. Today, he presents with bilateral peritonsillar swelling worse on the right side, severe pain when swallowing, hoarseness, lymphadenopathy and fever. I suspect a peritonsillar abscess based on my examination, which is why we're here."

If Collings is amused by the rapid-fire explanation, he doesn't show it. "Right. Well, shall we?" He cocks his head towards the appointment room door.

Next, Sherlock paces the floor as John endures an obviously excruciating and uncomfortable basic ENT examination complete with a fiberoscopic examination of his larynx.

"I think you're right," Collings tells Sherlock while John coughs and spits mucus into an emesis bowl; his throat has been numbed with a lidocaine spray which tastes horrible, plus bacterial culture swabs have just been taken. "The peritonsillar tissues on the right are hard and bulging; the abscess on that side looks ripe for draining. I also suspect the infection has spread across to the left side — or developed on both sides at the same time since the firmer swelling on the left seems to be extending downwards quite a bit and there is significant firmness on that side, as well in the soft palate. I recommend draining the abscesses."

"Abscesses, plural?" John sounds incredulous.

"Bilateral formation is not unheard of, especially not in adults," Sherlock declares.

"Bedside kit's positive for StrepA," the nurse tells them, holding the testing kit stick.

"Just do it and send us home with some penicillin, then," John says, sounding tired and resigned.

"We'll also need better pain management," Sherlock announces. "Something easier to swallow than tablets."

"Actually, the swelling is severe enough and extends downwards to warrant this being done in the OR, plus a bilateral abscess — especially with a history of frequent tonsillitis episodes within the last year — fulfils easily the criteria for an urgent tonsillectomy."

"Those aren't done in the acute phase of a tonsillectomy," Sherlock counters.

"Yes, they are, in these kinds of circumstances. John, with your permission, I'd like to admit you, order a preoperative CT to find out where the margins of the abscesses are, and let the OR team know. When have you last eaten?"

"But––" Sherlock protests. This isn't going the way he'd anticipated at all. The abscess was supposed to be opened and drained so that they could go home, and John could then rest and take his medications and get better. Now, there's _surgery_?

"Yesterday," John answers.

Sherlock is blinking now, feeling as though he can't quite keep up. _Why isn't John protesting this plan?_ Tonsillectomies in adults carry significant complications risks which haven't even been discussed yet.

"Perfect," Collings responds.

"You're really going to operate?" Sherlock asks. "When? How?"

Collings smiles sunnily. "As soon as I can get our team together. Our reg is doing a tracheostomy on an ITU patient, but after that, a theatre should be available. It'll be a standard tonsillectomy with drainage of the abscesses, possibly a drain left in if there's a larger pocket in there. The anaesthetist and I will assess airway swelling at the end of the operation and see if John might be better off weaned slowly from the respirator at the ITU. You know the drill, don't you?"

John nods, looking oddly stoic.

 _He must be feeling terribly ill to be able to take this in his stride_ , Sherlock realises. And that leaves _him_ in charge. "The ITU? It's just a tonsillar abscess!"

The volume and pitch of Sherlock's voice has risen slightly. He's getting vexed because he requires more information and no one is providing that. "I'd like to see the literature pro and con acute phase tonsillectomy in these circumstances."

"Of course, but I believe the decision is John's. I assume you've gassed for adult tonsillectomies?"

"Plenty. I know what it entails, and I know the risks."

"Are you happy with proceeding with this plan?"

Sherlock is aghast. _Of course, we're not happy!_ "You can't just––" _whisk John away like that!_

"It's alright, Sherlock, I've had surgery before," John tells him. "I just want whatever's in there out so this would stop."

"What you had before was _elective_ surgery! For your _knee_!"

"And an emergency operation for my shoulder," John mutters.

Sherlock ignores him. They were supposed to come here to get a small outpatient procedure and then some prescriptions and then go home. They were supposed to go to Sandhurst.

"Marissa will go through the paperwork with you," Collings nods towards the nurse. "I'll see you in a bit, John."

Sherlock wedges himself between his fellow surgeon and the door. "I'm scrubbing in."

"I'm not sure that's a good––" Collings starts to protest.

"I will at least be present in theatre," Sherlock insists, crossing his arms.

"No, you're not," John says. "I don't want you hovering over anyone's shoulder."

"I'm not _hovering_ , merely keeping an eye on things. I'm still not convinced this is a sensible plan."

"How'd you feel if your patient's husband told you that at the outpatient clinic?" John asks, "that they were going to be breathing down your neck?"

"You can't breathe down a neck in an OR, John. Surgical masks, remember? I'd think a family member who said that is an idiot because they're not a neurosurgeon while _I am_ , and they should trust my expertise."

John rolls his eyes. "Exactly. You trust him, hm?" John nods towards Collings.

"Yes."

"Then respect the fact that neither of us is an ENT."

“I still want to check the current literature for myself,” Sherlock insists, his protest sounding feeble in the face of two colleague staring him down. He digs out his phone from his pocket. “I just need––“

John grabs his mobile and shoves it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Enough. How do we get this plan going, then?” He asks Collings.

To Sherlock, his husband sounds exhausted and ill and worryingly compliant. His brain being so fever-hazy must explain why Sherlock's expert protest about thoroughly exploring all the options and making sure that the most up-to-date knowledge is being employed has been filed and dismissed.

While Collings and his nurse make some calls to arrange John a spot in theatre and at the ward afterwards, Sherlock sits primly in the chair off to the side reserved for family members and tries not to fidget. John still won't give him his phone back.

Eyes closed as he droops in the examination chair, John coughs some more, which sounds unproductive. It's more an attempt to clear his throat than trying to dislodge anything from his bronchi. He grimaces after each attempt; the pain he’s in must be exquisite. If Sherlock could do something, _anything_ , right now to fix it, he would. Instead, he is expected to allow Collings to take over. It rankles.

"You could have got this fixed earlier — before you developed an abscess,” he tells John.

“Not very helpful right now,” John snaps at him.

“You’ve fulfilled the criteria for an elective tonsillectomy for some time, now,” Sherlock continues. "First, you kept that fact from me, then kept insisting it wasn't worth the trouble of getting a tonsillectomy."

“I _know_ ,” John growls from behind gritted teeth. “Have you any idea how much fun going through that even as an elective version is for an adult, hm?”

Sherlock can’t quite follow John’s train of thought. Is he septic? That would explain why he’s saying confusing things. “I shouldn’t think fun is involved.” He grabs a portable blood pressure meter and begins tying the cuff around John’s arm.

“Bloody hell,” John mutters. “What are you doing now, you nutter?”

“Doing a proper survey of your vitals. You’ll need an IV if this is low.”

Collings is now off the phone, watching with both confusion and mild amusement what Sherlock is doing.

The nurse steps in to write down the measurement.

“156/78,” Sherlock declares. “Not in septic shock.”

“I could have told you that,” John comments tiredly. “Are you done, so that we could get on with things?”

“You should still have an IV inserted. A deep tissue infection in the airways warrants––“

He’s cut off by Collings. “Sherlock; I promise you we’ll look after him. He’ll get an IV before the CT. You’ve been nil-by-mouth for at least six hours?” He asks John.

"He's already _told you that_ ," Sherlock points out.

“Yeah. Can’t eat, hurts too much,” John confirms, glancing at him tiredly.

“Great. OR unit says we have an opening as soon as we need it,” Collings informs them.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “Surely, there are more preparations that need to be taken than jus the CT––“

“We can draw all the necessary bloods at the ward before the CT. The most important thing is that we lance this thing before it gets bigger — right, John?”

“But what do _I_ do?” Sherlock asks, his voice rising in pitch.

“You can wait at the ward, or maybe you’d be more comfortable waiting at home?” Collings suggests.

“I’m not comfortable with any of this!” Sherlock says, spreading his arms in frustration.

They’re going to just drag John away and he’ll be waiting somewhere, side-lined and not knowing what’s going on and whether the right clinical decisions are being made! They’re telling him he won’t, can’t be, is not _allowed_ to be there, right there, with John! It’ll be just like when he was told that there were no planes out of Malosa even though John looked like he needed dialysis and when he was told that John had been injured in Afghanistan and they were miles and miles apart and John could have been dead, and he didn’t know anything and he had to wait––

Sherlock is vaguely aware that a hand has landed on his shoulder, that the others are talking at him, that his name is being mentioned. He blinks himself back into existence and finally, it registers that he’s in the appointment room alone with John.

“Sherlock? You alright?” John asks, fingers curling gently into his shoulder.

No, of course he’s not alright! How could he be alright when they’re taking away his chance to help John make good decisions, sane decisions, sound clinical decisions! " _You’re_ not alright,” Sherlock accuses with a most embarrassing waver in his voice. “You’re not thinking straight, so I have to do the thinking for the both of us.”

“No, you don’t. That’s the thing, Sherlock, you don’t have to, because you're not in charge of the case. You–– _we_ trust Collings to know what we should do, right?”

“There’s no we here anymore,” Sherlock complains, and drops down to sit in the chair because he feels a bit light-headed. “I’ve been kicked out,” he complains.

“Would you let Collings into the OR while you operated on his wife?”

“If he insisted.”

“No, Sherlock. He shouldn’t be there. And you weren’t in the OR when I had my knee arthroscopy.”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “That was a minor elective procedure. I regret not being present that day, considering you needed sedatives during the surgery. I should have been there.”

“You know Laura would have kicked you out without a second thought.”

“She can be terribly stern,” Sherlock admits.

“Clearly, Collings isn’t. You can almost walk over him, which is probably why you've put up with him in your OR. That’s why I have to be the one to tell you you’re not looking over his shoulder in theatre. You’re going to wait at the ward or at home, have some tea or even a whisky if you need to. You can see me after, at the ward.”

“In the recovery room,” Sherlock demands.

“At the ward," John repeats firmly. "I’ll probably just be sleeping in recovery, nothing exciting for you to observe.”

“This isn’t _exciting_ , it’s horrifying.”

“Believe me, mine’s the horrifying part.”

The nurse knocks on the door and pops her head in. “We’re ready to take you upstairs, Doctor Watson.”

“Right, thanks.”

John pats Sherlock’s shoulder, then leans in for a quick hug during which he leans his upper body to the side, perhaps to avoid speaking directly in Sherlock's direction to avoid contagion. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you after.”

John then disappears out the door with the nurse, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the middle of the disinfectant-smelling appointment room, trying to comprehend what has just transpired.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surgery tends to be classified into three categories: elective, urgent and emergency. Elective means scheduled stuff for which all pertinent preparations can be made well beforehand, and patients know when they will be operated on. Urgent can mean anything from five minutes to several days, but it is unplanned. Emergency is, well, what it says on the tin, and it can be considered a subcategory of urgent. Not all emergencies mean running staff and spurting blood, but some do. Stuff where we do run include emergency c-sections, ruptured big blood vessels and swelling brains because of a bleed or injury.


	4. Powerless

Though the hospital is part of the same NHS Trust that employs him and John, Sherlock’s key card opens no doors at the Princess Royal. He couldn't feel more like just a family member as he presses the doorbell to be let into the ENT ward. John hasn’t been assigned a room yet since the Ward Sister is waiting for confirmation that he won’t be needing a spot at the ITU instead, so one of the nursing assistants directs Sherlock to a small day room to wait. She offers him tea, and some HobNobs which he accepts, but the brew turns out to be Tetley, which he is not fond of. Then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and he doesn't want to leave the building to acquire something better because what if John's surgery concludes while he's away and Collings can't find him? There's also the fact that he'd need to be buzzed back into the ward, and the idea feels more demeaning than he’s willing to put up with. Never had he realised how his confidence might depend on having free access to all hospital areas.

He doesn't like wearing his new suit in here. It doesn't _belong_ here.

He eats a second biscuit to calm his nerves.

Is he supposed to call someone? Who would even need to know what’s happening with John? Is there some social protocol here Sherlock may not be aware of? John had done all the communicating and arranging of things regarding his knee, and when he had got shot, there had been no point in wasting time on the phone; Sherlock had taken off to Northolt directly from work to catch a military plane out to Afghanistan.

He brings out his phone, scrolls through the contacts which are much fewer than those on John’s mobile. He texts Lestrade who will know which people at King's need to be called on Monday morning about John’s absence. Or perhaps Lestrade might handle all that. Sherlock realises he doesn’t even know how long John's sick leave will be.

Sherlock's superior replies in a manner of minutes; Sherlock knows he's on call at King's today and must carry his phone on his person at all times. To Sherlock's relief, he says he will let the anaesthesia unit know. John doesn't have call scheduled for five days, but his sick leave must be significantly longer; Lestrade says he'll make sure the shifts are reassigned and to tell John he mustn't worry about anything.

Relieved that he can cross King's off his list, Sherlock decides against calling his parents for now. Mummy would overreact and fuss terribly, and her stupid questions and assumptions of his inability to cope would only rile Sherlock up. He's already on edge; he doesn't need or want her attention right now.

His finger halts on the touchscreen when the name Harriet Watson comes up. She's John’s only close living relative, and Sherlock is unsure whether she would expect such news via a phone call or if a text message would be acceptable. He detests speaking on the phone; he finds it hard to read people face-to-face and, without the visual element, picking up on social cues is a losing game for him. Sherlock decides to err on the side of caution, grits his teeth and makes the call.

“Hello?” she answers in a disinterested tone on the third ring — he had hoped that she wouldn't be available.

“Harriet?”

“Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you calling me Harriet for?”

“I see you have not programmed my number into the contacts on your mobile.”

“Kind of pointless, since you call me like once a decade.”

Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to program it in since Harry wouldn’t have learned the number by heart? Sherlock wouldn’t really have to program any names in since his eidetic memory allows him to remember a virtually unlimited amount of telephone numbers, but the brain does process familiar letter combinations faster than numbers, so he’d succumbed to the lure of convenience.

“What’s up? This about John’s birthday?” Harry asks.

Sherlock briefly panics. Is John’s birthday drawing close? Should he have done something? Has he deleted it? No, he hasn’t. It’s not in months. “No, it’s not. I'm calling you because he's having surgery.”

“When? What kind?”

“Right now.”

“Sherlock, what the hell…? Has he been in an accident? What? Tell me!”

“He developed a bilateral peritonsillar abscess which could have eventually compromised his airway, so the ENT consultant thought it pertinent––“

“In English, you cock. _Now_.”

“Quinsy is what I believe laypeople call it.”

“Isn’t that like… a kids’ thing?”

“Mostly, yes, but it’s not uncommon in adults. His was on both sides, so an urgent tonsillectomy is being performed. He may need intensive care afterwards.”

“Oh my God. Is he alright?”

 _What a stupid question._ “No, I don’t believe this constitutes _being alright_. He had a fever and was in a lot of pain.” There’s another brief panic as Sherlock realises that he’d overlooked something: a rare, but potentially severe complication. _Should the possibility of Lemierre’s syndrome have been given more consideration? Did the CT rule it out reliably? How could I have forgot to ask Collings about that?_

“Where are you?” Harry asks.

“Waiting at the ear, nose and throat patients' ward at the Princess Royal Hospital. The operation shouldn’t take long; I’m hoping to be informed promptly whether he’ll be brought to the ward or taken to the ITU.”

“Should I come?”

As alone as Sherlock feels right now, Harry is not a presence he’d welcome right now. “No, that’s not necessary. In either case, he’s unlikely to feel up to having visitors after being extubated."

"After what?"

"After he's emerged from anaesthesia. I will keep you updated."

“You’d better.”

Sherlock has no response to that.

“You okay?” Harry asks. “Or never mind. You sound pretty calm to me.”

He doesn’t feel calm. He feels… unsure what to do. Painfully self-aware. Out of his depth, even though a hospital is a very familiar environment for him. “Who else should I inform?”

"I don’t know. Your parents, maybe? Work?"

"I have taken both into consideration."

"Okay. Well, let me know how he's doing and when you'll get to see him or if you need me to come over."

They ring off. Sherlock takes a moment to consider the difficulty of conveying the strange combination of routine and risk that John’s operation comprises to a layperson such as Harry. Should he have been more forthcoming about all that? A tonsillectomy is one of the most common surgical ENT procedures and usually goes without a hitch, even in adults for whom the recovery is a much heavier undertaking than for children. But, when there is a complication, the sequelae can be life threatening: airway compromise, a major bleed… Sherlock shudders. _Why didn't John get this sorted much earlier? Elective tonsillectomies have a much lower overall risk level, and we could have gone to Sandhurst._

Is it petty to be disappointed, when John must be doubly so, not to mention ill and miserable? Sherlock can't _not_ be disappointed — can't just turn his feelings off like that. If he has mastery over them, he could have fixed the way he's been feeling lately, couldn't he? Stale, aggressively bored, disinterested in anything and everything. Drained but restless.

"Mister Holmes?" The Ward Sister is standing at the entrance to the dayroom.

He springs to his feet, nearly knocking over his empty paper cup at the edge of the table. “Yes?”

“Mister Collings just called us say Mister Watson is in recovery and is expected at the ward in an hour.”

 _Expected at the ward — no ITU. Is that really safe? What if there is an airway issue; the ITU would have better availability of people trained in difficult airways. I should stay with him here to monitor things_.

"Thank you," Sherlock parses together. He then sits back down, expecting the supervising nurse to leave.

Instead, she looks a mixture of determined and apologetic. "I’m afraid visiting hours will end before Mister Watson will be brought in."

"Excuse me?"

"You may wait here to see him when he arrives, but the official visiting hours end in fifteen minutes."

"I will be staying the night with him," Sherlock declares. _Don't you know who I am?_

"I’m afraid that won’t be possible." The Ward Sister straightens her back. There’s a sense of a face-off as both study the other’s expression.

"I’m a surgical Consultant with the Trust at Denmark Hill, and John is the Director of Operative Services. It is imperative for the functioning of this Trust to ensure his prompt recovery, so I am staying."

The Sister’s smile is somehow disarming yet stern. "I’m afraid the only exceptions are for parents of underage patients."

 _This is outrageous_. John needs him, and he needs–– _oh_. He realises that most adult humans must cope better than he does with having to be in a hospital ward. John can probably put up with it just fine, and that's why those exceptions are only for children. It’s just that _Sherlock_ doesn’t quite feel like he can currently quite cope with John in a hospital ward. They were supposed to be at Sandhurst by now, attending the parade and the late lunch.

"I’m sure Mister Watson will be very tired and wanting to sleep a lot after his operation; the rest of today and tonight will fly by for him.”

"Well, they certainly will not do so for me."

"As I said, you can say hello when Mister Watson arrives, but our patients will then need their rest from visitors." The Sister then leaves.

Sherlock tries googling the contact information for Princess Royal’s patient advocate, then realises he wouldn’t know how to justify demanding an exception to the visiting rules. John seems to think it's awkward and a bit tactless to demand special treatment, except when it's for Sherlock's benefit. Isn't it unfair that John couldn't be granted the same comforts?

For the next hour, Sherlock tries to come up with inconspicuous ways to stim where he's sitting in the day room where patients and family members come and go, borrowing magazines or books, having tea or just stretching their legs. At one point Sherlock had allowed himself to pace, but that seemed to make the others occupying the room uneasy.

In the end, he retreats to a bench in the corridor near the nurses' station and occupies himself on reading his emails on his phone. Had their original plans held, he wouldn't be doing so on this particular Saturday — he'd promised John a weekend free from work. He longs desperately for a cigarette — or seven — but he's adamant not to leave the ward.

Finally, he hears the sliding double doors at the end of the corridor open and the sound of a bed being wheeled in by a porter.

When Sherlock recognises his husband, he feels the lurch of a few extra heartbeats brought on by sheer relief.

John looks a bit out of it: pale, bleary-eyed and unfocused. “You’ve been here the whole time?” he asks when he spots Sherlock as the bed is wheeled towards the nurses' station.

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock does a quick survey of his partner. John is breathing normally and the thick, mumbling quality in his tone has disappeared. He's also not grimacing in pain. Sherlock had not expected any outward signs of the surgery, but there are some petechiae on John’s cheeks — perhaps from coughing as the intubation tube was removed — and he has dark shadows under his eyes. Sherlock decides that John still looks better than he did before the surgery.

"I needed to find out whether you’d be taken to the recovery room or directly to the ITU," Sherlock reminds him. "Where else was I going to go?"

Relief washes over Sherlock and makes his fingertips tingle as he realises that, had John needed the ITU, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. _John would be intubated still_.

"They’re telling me I have to leave," Sherlock complains. "Visiting hours are being enforced."

"You really should head home and not waste more of your weekend here," John tells him. “I feel a bit better, but it's hard to keep my eyes open; I guess that’s GA for you. They’ve obviously put me on something good for the pain.”

"I’m glad," Sherlock tells him and means it.

Sherlock trails behind the bed as the porter — impatient to get on with his list of patients needing transport — rolls it into the room John has been assigned. The Ward Sister passes them in the corridor, giving Sherlock a weighty glance to which he responds with an eye roll.

There is another patient in John's room: an older man with a tracheostomy and a phlegmatic cough. They will be separated only by a mint green curtain. _Hardly conducive to getting a good night's sleep_.

"Collings said he’d call you later today about discharge info. Turns out he's likely to release me tomorrow evening if the labs look okay."

Sherlock had completely forgot about the lab work. _Idiot!_ "What were the results?"

"Leukocytes thirteen, CRP a hundred and twenty. Looks like this developed fast and got fixed early enough. They even drew blood cultures."

Sherlock notices a glass bottle of penicillin being infused. “Isn’t that a bit limited spectrum?”

"The StrepA test was positive, and I’m sure they’ll replace it with something else if the swabs or blood cultures come back with something more exotic."

“Are you allowed water?” Sherlock decides a glass of water is something he can do for John, even if he’s not allowed to participate in the medical decision-making.

"I think so. They promised me an ice lolly later," John says with a tired smile.

"Delightful."

John’s roommate behind the partition makes a wet, gurgling sound as he turns in bed. Sherlock hopes he won’t be as noisy during the night.

He fills a disposable cup with cold water from the tap and brings it to John, who accepts it with a nod and takes a careful sip.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asks.

"Not much. At least not yet. Scrub nurse said she went through an elective tonsillectomy last year and said that days two to four are the worst."

"I suspect it's different with acute tonsillitis. Were you advised what to do if there is a post-operative bleed?"

"I suppose they'll do that when I get discharged. I got to pick between harmonic dissection and electrocautery. Told Collings to do whichever has less of a bleeding risk. Having to anaesthetise those patients who get one can be hell.”

"Electrocautery carries a larger risk of damage to surrounding tissues." Sherlock is dismayed that he hadn't been a part of that conversation with Collings, and wouldn’t have condoned such a choice.

"Well, it’s all done, now. You can head home and relax."

_Relax? John's judgement must be terribly affected still by the anaesthesia if he thinks I can do that._

"What will you do?" Sherlock asks. _What does one do at an inpatient ward if feeling tolerable?_

"I have my phone for entertainment, but I’ll probably sleep now that the bloody pain’s not waking me up every half an hour."

"I'll check when visiting hours start tomorrow."

"I’ll be expecting you then. Come here,” John prompts, stretching out his arms so he can briefly wrap them around Sherlock's shoulders and lean his chin on his shoulder.

Before straightening his back again, Sherlock gives John a chaste kiss on the cheek. Now that Collings has opened the abscess and released all the infectious material from where it had pocketed itself in the soft tissues surrounding the tonsils, John's breath smells even worse than it did before. The dry air used during GA may have also contributed.

Professionally, Sherlock can put up with all that humans shed or excrete, and never had trouble handling cadavers in medical school, but he appreciates the elegance and neatness of neurosurgery as a specialty. In comparison, ENT seems somewhat off-putting in the same way that Sherlock doesn't quite understand why a surgeon would be fascinated by bowel operations above all. Even the odd brain abscess is aesthetically and olfactorily much more tolerable than ENTs having to swim around in people’s snot and saliva and ear wax all the time at their outpatient clinics, not to mention what gastric surgeons and gynaecologists must put up with. In Malosa, Sherlock had been a general surgeon, not a neurosurgeon, and it had felt good to get his hands dirty — he felt as though he was disproving all the misconceptions some of his colleagues have about him being some prim, fussy, high-maintenance person. He had wanted to prove that to John above all, and before John had fallen ill Sherlock hadn't been certain how well he had succeeded. John seems to have a lot of admiration for how he managed at Bastion and in Malosa without his support, but Sherlock can't help but suspect some of that admiration is built on a false premise and awarded too freely — praise for what John might see as something people should normally manage much easier than Sherlock had done.

He can't help but wonder if he can ever be truly equal with his partner, or if the standards will always be different for him because of who and what he is.

"Goodnight, John," he says, and feels instantly silly because it's the afternoon. It's just that spending tonight away from John was not the plan, and the idea fills him with a strange sense of dread. He feels stuck still in the whiplash of their plans changing so dramatically, and John isn't available to cushion the blow for him. He shouldn't need it. He should cope. He shouldn't have hung so much hope of his mood improving on this weekend, and now fate has thrown a wrench in to put him in his place.

"Night, Sherlock," John says, eyelids heavy.

There is nothing more for Sherlock to do here than to leave, to go home without his husband. "Text me if you…"

"Hm?" John's eyes have drifted closed.

"…need me?" Sherlock suggests.

"Yeah," John says and yawns.

 _He won't_ , Sherlock thinks as he makes his way out of the ward. _People generally don't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All surgical specialties have their upsides and downsides, their fascinating and cool cases and their bread-and-butter yawn-inducers. But of course Sherlock would be snooty about stuff that's not neurosurgery. And even I have been known to lament how many colleagues there are who simply refuse to accept that _clearly_ anaesthesiology is the sexiest and most useful medical specialty. Duh. At least Dr Watson with his inflamed johnsils has the good sense to agree with me.


	5. Unrest

Sherlock likes to think he had done the best he could in avoiding emotional entanglement with other people before John had barged into his life. He had considered such things unnecessary, messy, exhausting — nothing but a road to certain failure. He wouldn’t trade his married life for the profound loneliness of his childhood, teenage and early adulthood but it hits him hard occasionally how much he has to lose now that he's with John. Who will be the first to pass away? What will happen to the other? He is certain that John, though devastated, could cope. Perhaps badly for some time, but he would cope.

 _What about me?_ he wonders, closing the door behind him to an empty flat. _I cannot go back to the sort of existence I had before him, because I'd remember what it was like to be with John._

He’s spent many nights alone in their home, of course. They are both on call frequently, John goes to conferences or to see Harry, spends the occasional late evening out with friends, and he went to Afghanistan. Sherlock knows John is as fine as he could be under the circumstances and that he should be home very soon, but tonight feels more like the nights in Malosa when John had Dengue than they do when he's just gone to Warsaw or Edinburgh for the weekend.

He makes tea and forgets in on the kitchen counter while changing out of his suit and into pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. It's not quite evening yet, but John is also be in pyjamas, isn't he? Sherlock has always detested arbitrary rules about clothing and the proper use of rooms and household items. Had they gone to Sandhurst, they'd probably be at the hotel now, perhaps enjoying some leisurely paced sex and then getting ready for the dinner banquet.

He pours the tea down the drain and tries to go sit on the sofa, but he simply can’t settle himself. When he's supremely jittery like this, John is the best antidote, especially if he puts Sherlock's feet on his lap and does unspeakably amazing things to them with his knuckles. Why is it he craves for John's company right now, when on most evenings he forgoes it in favour of his research or some other interest? He shouldn't take John for granted at any time; perhaps this is the universe punishing him for wasting so many opportunities. In Afghanistan and in Malosa, he’d at least had access to John; he’d been able to help. Now, he’s just expected to wait, and waiting is one thing he’s always found most intolerable. Another intolerable thing is when plans he has meticulously prepared for change. He’s certain that endurance of both that and having to wait is expected from so-called normal adults, and that he doesn't qualify as such an individual.

He flops onto his back on the sofa, lets his hand wander into his pyjama trousers. Sometimes an orgasm has helped him relax when John isn’t at home. They haven’t been intimate in an unforgivably long time — _undoubtedly it is my fault_ — and Sherlock had relished the thought of getting to strip Captain Watson naked tonight. The drive to Sandhurst would have provided a convenient transition for Sherlock's brain from work and research to focussing on John and appreciating the luxury of planned time together. Their busy professional lives take up so much energy and concentration that an effort must be made to maintain a healthy relationship. At least this is what Doctor Pichler tells him. Before he'd met John, Sherlock had spared little thought to how romantic relationships worked, hadn't imagined that some sort of upkeep would be required. He couldn't imagine falling out of love with John, but apparently, for people who are not like him, rekindling of things, reassurance and adjustments to perspective as life events strain the relationship are needed. It's not enough to love someone, it seems — that love must shape a willingness to compromise and listen and put in a lot of effort to see things from the other person's perspective. None of these are things Sherlock thinks he has much skill in, but John seems to appreciate his fumbling attempts.

As promised, Marius Collings had called him when he was in the cab en route home. He'd repeated instructions which he must have given John and said that the operation had gone well. The abscesses turned out to be not as extensive as he'd feared and didn't extend to the neck compartments. They had been emptied without a need to leave in a drainage tube. According to Collings, John's recovery shouldn't be _that_ much more painful or complicated compared to an elective tonsillectomy without quinsy. Sherlock had found that statement disappointingly vague. He doesn't know what that usual sort of recovery entails, or what John might expect from him during it. He feels even less equipped for all this than he is usually; the prickly frustration and disinterest that have ailed him for weeks now make it all seem like a terribly taxing uphill climb.

 _I can’t miss him, it’s only been hours since I last saw him_ , Sherlock chastises himself. Yet there’s no denying the truth: it’s almost painful how wrong it feels to know he won't have the familiar silhouette of John next to him in bed tonight, available to be touched if Sherlock wants or needs it, or John does. Instead of John beside him, warm and alive, Sherlock will toss and turn in an empty bed, the plans of the next days an unknown.

His cock is wholly uninterested in the exploratory strokes he is giving it. With a grunt, he removes his hand and throws his head back against the hand rest.

___________

_Why am I even trying to sleep_? wonders Sherlock many hours later.

He grabs his phone from the coffee table, types up a text.

[23:44] John?

In a few minutes, grey dots are dancing, and Sherlock breathes easier. John shouldn’t be typing, he should be sleeping, but Sherlock can’t deny that he’s terribly grateful to the universe for even this brief reminder that he’s not alone.

[23:46] I’m awake nurse has gone to get me more oxy previous one has stopped working

[23:49] VAS? Sherlock inquires, wanting to know how much the pain is on a verbal scale from zero to ten.

[23:52] eight didn’t expect it to radiate to my ear like this

[23:54] Have you looked into your mouth? Taken a photo?

[23:58] not keen on the idea

[00:01] For me?

[00:03] Most blokes would ask for a dick pic

 _I’m not most blokes_. Sherlock bristles for a moment; he hates being reminded of his… particular traits. John probably hadn't meant it that way; he's probably just tired and in pain and thus a bit thoughtless. The insinuation still grates a bit.

After a few minutes, a badly positioned and blurry photo of what looks like an oral cavity comes through. Sherlock can’t make heads or tails whether it looks the way it should be at this point.

[00:06] keep me company while the oxy kicks in

[00:07] Of course. Facetime?

[00:10] nope bc roommate, remember?

[00:11] Ah.

[00:13] what have you been up to, then ??

_Pacing in the sitting room, playing the violin and then getting frustrated at it. Ordering takeout, which I forgot to eat and only remembered now, is still sitting on the kitchen table. Placing an Ocado order of nine different ice creams and sorbets because Collings said ice cream would be a good diet staple for a few days. Amazon priming you a reusable two-litre water bottle with an hourly intake measurement scale because he also told me sufficient hydration will assist with recovery and pain management. Missing you terribly._

He probably shouldn't admit to any of this to John, though. _He'll worry needlessly while convalescing_.

[00:19] Peer reviewing an article for Int J Neurosurg

[00:21] those people out in clubs and bars on a sat night don’t know what they’re missing do they

[00:23] They’re all idiots.

[00:26] we’ll book another weekend away

[00:29] Alright.

[00:31] I think the oxy’s helping, hate it tho because I think it’s making me nap in ten-minute bits and I keep getting startled awake

[00:33] Hypnic jerks are associated with opiate use.

[00:34] really? known side effect?

[00:37] I’m very surprised you didn’t know this, Consulting Anaesthetist Watson.

[00:40] I’m very surprised you do cons neurosurgeon holmes bc surgeons aren’t exactly known for their pharmacological prowess

There is a reason Sherlock would have known this even without medical school: personal experience. Even in his oxycodoned-up state, John should realise that any second, now.

Grey dots dance, then stop. Dance again, then stop.

[00:42] I’m an arsehole

[00:43] No, you’re not. You’re just poorly. I find that people’s intelligence and their manners both suffer in such circumstances.

[00:50] am tired, tho. should seep.

[00:51] Agreed. Your spelling is appalling when taking opiates.

[00:52] night shrlock

This is the last communication from John; he doesn't respond to the 'sleep well' from Sherlock.

The conversation has presented Sherlock with a new dilemma, one he should have realised earlier. Once again, his feelings have muddled his thinking. The issue is that John is likely to be discharged with a prescription for an opioid-based painkiller. Sherlock is fairly confident he won’t be tempted; after all, he’s been clean for years. But, how concerned will _John_ be that he might feel the lure? He hopes this won’t affect John’s willingness to pick up that prescription and to take such a necessary medication.

Sherlock climbs out of bed and goes to the sitting room to sit at his laptop so he can read through everything he can find on post-operative pain management for adult tonsillectomies.

_____________  
  


After getting cold in the sitting room, Sherlock retreats to bed with a half-eaten packed of crisps John had stuffed in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets. The Thai food he'd ordered he has no stomach for right now. John hates it when he eats in bed and leaves crumbs, but John isn't here.

At some point, sleep claims Sherlock where he is curled up on the bed on top of the duvet with his hand still on the laptop’s track pad.

What follows is not restful at all.

Instead of their bed at home, Sherlock finds himself back at Bastion, nauseous and shivering with fever from food poisoning where he lies on the cot in John’s dusty office. Glancing up, teeth clattering in the desert night cold that has seeped into the mostly empty side building, he can see stars through the window. He hears footsteps outside, distant mortar fire, the hum and crackle of electrical wires short-circuiting. Freezing even under the coarse woollen blanket, he shoves his tingling fingers into his armpits, but the wetness there on his right flank makes him draw his hand out and inspect it in the dim light. It’s coated with a black, slick substance that cannot be anything but blood, yet it’s cold. Trailing his fingers up across his chest and down his arms underneath the borrowed T-shirt to find the source, his fingertips happen upon a hole the size of a penny on the left side of his chest. It’s still trickling blood.

Suddenly, John is standing beside him, looking exasperated in that familiar way he adopts when he’s disappointed in Sherlock’s abilities to cope with something. "You _idiot_ , look what you’ve done. I told you to suture that up hours ago. Do you listen, ever? No. It’s all infected, now. It’s going to keep bleeding."

"I’m c--cold," Sherlock tells him, shaking with fear and the glacial temperature. "Can’t we fix it in the morning?"

John glances out the window where whistling tracer bullets like shooting stars are lighting up the sky. He scoffs. "What makes you think I'll still want to be here in the morning?"

He fades into the dust swirling in from the darkness in the corners of the room.

"John?" Sherlock calls out. He’s too tired, too sore to get up, and his brain must be playing tricks. He closes his eyes briefly just to rest a bit, but a change in the ambient sounds and smells makes him blink them back open.

It’s bright. Bright and warm in the way he’s only experienced in Africa. He can hear birds outside, the buzzing of insects just outside the mosquito-netted window vent. The sun is still low but rising. He’s no longer in the hard, narrow cot but a soft bed, one that creaks under him as he turns to his side. The sheets are rough, white linen and smell of the faintly lemon-scented fabric softener Louisa, their housekeeper in Malosa, uses since it's the only brand available in the village shop.

There’s a heaviness pressing down on the mattress next to Sherlock he’d learned to expect upon waking up in that very bed. He extends an arm over the strong, familiar torso, scoots closer to press his face between John’s shoulder blades. Usually, John — if awake — would touch his hand as it curled around his waist, would lean his head back against Sherlock’s curls.

John is still, very still. Alarmingly still.

Sherlock sits up, untangling his feet from the sheet, and shakes John’s shoulder so that he would slump onto his back. He’s pale, his skin slightly yellowish. On his cheeks, purple petechiae have broken out, and he's staring up, unblinking, glassy-eyed into the ceiling. His chest moves no air, and his fingers have contracted slightly as though he’d had second thoughts after deciding to make a fist.

He looks peaceful… yet _wrong_ in a way Sherlock's very core recognises before the thought form in his head.

That's when he wakes up with a jolting gasp, chest heaving in panic.

This nightmare, the claws of which have left smarting welts on his nerves, is not new, but he’s not had to endure it since Malosa. Those days had felt endless: days of being stranded by flooding with a deteriorating John he could do very little for, since the virus raging in his system could not be controlled by any drug Sherlock had at his disposal. He would have built a dialysis machine by hand if he’d had the parts, would have sat by John’s bedside squeezing an ambu bag for days without rest if he’d needed a respirator and the intermittent power-outs and their misbehaving spare generator had failed on them. As someone who loved John more than themselves, he could have done everything humanly possible and more but still lost his husband to Dengue fever.

During the worst of it, it had felt as though his medical training, especially the knowledge he had about prognoses and the limits of what he had at his disposal in Malosa, had just made things worse. It made things worse because a layperson could have clung to hope with a firmer grip because they only know the past and the now. A doctor is different, because their knowledge allows them to operate within the realm of the what-ifs, and no amount of training can take away the fear that follows when it’s a loved one and not just a patient from whom a doctor can professionally distance themselves.

And that is why Sherlock now grabs his phone, hands clammy with cold sweat and dials a number not programmed into his phone but which he had memorised earlier that day.

"Hello?" The sleep-soft voice of Marius Collings answers.

"Have you ruled out Lemierre’s? Should a cardiac ultrasound be done? StrepA can cause endocarditis."

"Lemierre is Fusobacterium, not StrepA, and John has no symptoms pointing to that."

"Did you get the blood culture results? Did you take samples from the abscess and not just throat swabs?"

"Abscess samples, yes, and the stain results are in: pure StrepA. John’s had an ECG which was normal. Blood cultures negative so endocardial involvement is unlikely.”

"Oh." It does all make sense, and Collings has been thorough, and Sherlock knows he should find all this reassuring, but the niggling doubt does not let go. It's swirling together with all his other anxieties, now, and instead of facts he wants someone to tell him everything will be alright. It takes all his mental reserves to keep his calm.

"Anything else on your mind?" Collings asks and doesn’t sound annoyed that Sherlock has woken him up.

Sherlock appreciates that. "No, that’ll be all. For _now_."

Collings yawns. "Everything went alright. The next few days will be tough, but we got this sorted at the right time."

"That’s debatable, though the fault lies not with you but John's reluctance in getting this sorted before a complication developed."

"Good night, Holmes." Collings rings off.

Perhaps he was a tad irritated, after all. Sherlock can’t really tell. Sometimes John gets irritated when on call but hides it well.

Next, Sherlock calls the ward and is told that John is asleep the last they checked and that his night has been uneventful. Sherlock demands to know how old the information regarding his restful sleep is, and when he’s told John had been last checked on forty minutes earlier, he refuses to end the call until someone goes to the room to verify his husband's status.

"He’s fine, Mister Holmes," the nurse whose name he's forgot and cares not a whit about informs him. "His breathing is normal, and he’s sleeping, albeit a bit fitfully."

"Fitfully? Is he in pain?"

"I’m sure if that were the case, he would have woken up and told us."

"He was –– _is_ — a soldier. He can withstand significant amounts of pain. Shouldn't you administer tablet-form pain management well in advance to the blood levels dropping significantly? If he doesn't get his regular doses, he'll be in unacceptable levels of pain before the next dose kicks in."

"He has kept us informed so far when he needs more medication, and the next dose has been left by his bed; I believe he's set an alarm for it just as Mister Collings recommended. I’m afraid I must go now; another patient has used their call button. Have a good night, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock huffs as the calls is disconnected. He most certainly won’t be having anything resembling even a bearable one at this rate. He leaves the bed, curling his toes on the cold floor. In the sitting room, he opens the window and sticks his head out to shock his system into proper wakefulness.

Below, Saturday night traffic on Baker Street is churning towards its destinations. Black cabs are transporting punters from bars and clubs, the odd police car drives by without sirens on. Sherlock has often thought of the humanity infesting London as akin to the fog that so often descends upon the city: tolerable, but eventually it begins to lower one’s spirits in how it constantly grates one’s nerves and exhausts one’s reserves.

He's missing John with an ache that reminds him of other things.

_God, I need a cigarette._

He’s pulled his coat on before he’s even realised making the decision, and he doesn’t care if he’s only got his black silk pyjamas on underneath. Shoes follow without socks. There’s a newsagent and a Tesco Metro nearby, both of which are likely to stock Sterling — his nicotine vessel of choice. In all honesty, his abstinence is mostly motivated by John. _What he doesn't know won't hurt him._

It’s funny, really, how flimsy the construct of being 'clean' is. Whether that’s about the drugs or the smoking, all it takes to wreck years of smoke-free sobriety is a momentary imbalance between need and control. Sherlock has never conferred more value on abstinence that has lasted years as opposed to mere days; he suspects people who think like that have never used heroin. The first week without is the worst, thus requiring more fortitude than not using heroin five years down the road when memories of the finest highs have gathered an emotional layer of dust. There is a difference between chemical addiction and psychological addiction, each with a different half-life in the brain.

A thought occurs as he heads for the newsagent's: John will be coming home with an opiate prescription. _Just a thought_ , Sherlock reminds himself; _isn't it responsible of me to consider this beforehand and plan how to handle such a temptation?_ He hates suspecting that he needs a plan; that idea underlines the fact that John might think he is Sherlock's keeper and warden when it comes to addiction. Sherlock can abstain from indulging perfectly well on his own; he’s not doubtful of his own capacity not to nick a few capsules of oxy or whatever they’re going to prescribe. What he _is_ afraid of is his brain’s ability to come up with justifications to do so. It'll be easier to decide, now, what he will or will not do. What he might decide later is a whole other matter.

Right now, he needs to decide if getting rid of this anxiety is more important than some imaginary gold star of non-smoking.

The newsagent is closed. It _is_ four in the morning, after all. Tesco Metro is disappointingly, aggravatingly closed, too. Were he the sort of man John is, one who can look after themselves physically and blend in as a normal heterosexual human male, Sherlock might approach one of the loiterers in front of clubs or by the entrance to Baker Street tube station and ask for a cig.

He’s now become a loiterer himself, shifting his weight in front of the closed Tesco like someone planning a robbery and trying to pluck up the courage.

A small ad poster catches his eye: it's advertising something called ' _www.booze-up.com — the late-night delivery service. Wines, spirits, champagne, soft drinks, cigarettes._ '

It’s _perfect_. In the future, he could do this online from the warmth and comfort of his home without having to deal with people face-to-face. Sherlock wonders what they’ll put on credit card statements; sometimes John opens his letters if he ignores them for too long. Perhaps he might open his next Barclays one to make sure he won't have to explain himself.

A pang of guilt hits; it’s as though he’s having an affair with a hitherto virtual packet of Sterling and making plans to conceal it from John. _Likely John would be angrier about an actual affair, though._ Sherlock considers it highly unlikely he'd ever be tempted to indulge in such a thing; people wouldn't stand him for longer than a shag, he has no interest in trying to decipher the needs and wants of anyone but John, and he can't even imagine being as aroused by someone else. Being seduced by illicit substances would be much more likely a fall for him, because the thought of intimacy with someone who isn’t John sounds messy, awkward, potentially sexually unpleasant and so not worth the trouble.

Momentarily pleased with his moral fortitude, Sherlock slips under the awning of a nearby bar to shield himself from the sleeting rain. He brings up the advertised website on his phone. The bouncer is giving him appraising looks and not looking pleased with the results of his assessment; Sherlock realises it must be the pyjamas visible under his open coat.

"Forgot my keys," he excuses himself and turns his back to the bouncer to signal he has no desire to enter the premises.

"Sleepwalker, eh?" the man asks in response with a laugh.

Sherlock ignores him. It takes only a few minutes to make an order in the online system. Delivery time is estimated to be fifteen minutes.

The bouncer has now disappeared, perhaps to the gents. A young man Sherlock had noticed but not paid much attention to has been standing nearby; Sherlock had assumed he was a club patron since he’d seen a red glowing dot from a cigarette. Now, that cigarette has been extinguished, and the man approaches him warily yet confidently. He’s youngish, scrawny, slightly unkempt, but his clothes are clean.

"You lookin’ fer something?" He asks Sherlock. "I got it. Stims, dope, whatever."

"Just browsing, thanks," Sherlock quips dryly.

"Right." The man rocks on his heels but doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t seem aggressive; Sherlock might even use the term polite to describe his demeanour.

"Do you take cards?" Sherlock asks, mostly as a joke. He stifles a chuckle at the thought of what a dealer might make of his Centurion Amex. John refuses to borrow it to buy groceries on their commute home if he forgets his wallet at home; says he refuses to flash such a thing around Waitrose. He tries to make Sherlock go in to do the shopping, which he is loath to do without John. Sometimes they argue. It seems pointless. John is much less averse to the environment of a grocery store, so why shouldn't he go?

"Fock you," the younger man replies with a smirk.

"I _could_ give you a tenner for one of your smokes," Sherlock suggests.

The dealer shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets, mulling over the idea. Then, he complies and Sherlock slips him the cash. The man lights his cigarette then digs out one for himself, shifting close to an air vent. "Warmer ‘ere."

He’s right. What is likely an exhaust vent from the air conditioning blows pleasantly warm air. Sherlock decides that he might as well linger here until delivery time, since he’ll have to smoke outside, anyway. John is like a bloodhound when it comes to picking up the scent of smoking on his clothes.

"What’s the clientele like in the area, then? Why not go to Canary Wharf where all the rich yuppies are bound to need their coke and Adderall for all-night work?"

The dealer snorts. "Not dealin’ to those shitwads. At least the people 'ere are polite. Those in the big houses around Regent’s Park like their expensive treats and they look ya down the nose but don’ rub it in. An’ the clubs here are nicer, they got less trigger-happy bouncers."

"They’re not armed, are they?"

"Nah. Trigger-happy with them fists, you know."

"With _their_ fists."

The younger man gives him an eye roll. "Where’re you squattin’, then? Could get a pretty penny for that coat, you know, get you somewhere warm."

"Squa––" It’s not the concept that throws Sherlock; after all, he had become familiar with the likes of this man when he’d been using and hanging out with Victor, who was in the trade. It’s the fact that even now, when he’s wearing a Derek Rose pyjama under his Belstaff coat, he apparently has the air of someone who might live on the streets. “No. I have a flat down the street. Waiting for a delivery."

"Right." The dealer seems sceptical of his story.

"Got a name?"

"None of ya business."

"Funny name, that."

The man hesitates, then looks down at his shoes. "Wiggins."

"That’s just a surname."

"Billy Wiggins."

"William originally?"

"Bill."

“Seems counter-intuitive, adding a letter to create a pet name.”

"What’s it to you? You got a better pet name, then?"

"I really don’t." The term ‘pet name’ seems to indicate it is created with fondness. None of the things people have called him have been fond or kind. The only exception is when John sometimes calls him ‘love’. That's a standard endearment, though, not a proper specific pet name.

Sherlock's phone pings with a text: the delivery is due any minute. "Thanks for the cig."

"Whatever. You paid for it."

"Good luck, then, with business."

"Ain’t about luck."

"No, I suppose not."

Sherlock's pyjama legs are quite wet now, and clinging to his shins most unpleasantly.

He meets the deliveryman at the door to 221 and decides against smoking a second cigarette outside. He’ll stick his head out the window, put a throw around his shoulders. That'll pass the time until he can no longer resist the temptation to call the ward again to ask about John.

  
  



	6. Test to Destruction

The delivered cigarettes he smokes one after the other at the flat are heavenly. _Best get rid of them as soon as I can; John might find them in the flat_. His mind drains of anxiety, his raw nerves feel as though they’ve been wrapped in cotton, and he can almost hear his receptors singing an ode of pleasure. It feels like being reunited with an old love, like sunshine crawling into his veins and lighting him up from the inside.

It feels good enough to satisfy the sum total of his cravings — for now. He knows, however, that the cigarettes will make a part of his brain wonder if he could feel even more spectacular if he indulged in something else that would light up his neural networks like a Christmas tree.

  
_____________

It's Saturday, almost two in the afternoon, and Sherlock is sitting at Speedy's with his mobile out, his sandwich only half consumed.

[sent at 13:51] John is still at Princess Royal's Surgical Ward 3. Based on a review of the latest literature, I have approximated his likely sick leave to be three weeks. —SH

[From G. Lestrade at 13:58] GOOD TO KNOW TELL HIM I SAID HELLO WILL INFORM HIS SECRETARY AND THE ANAEST UNIT ON MONDAY

Sherlock sighs. He's seen this before — his superior is perfectly capable of civilized text communication, but when busy at work he just won't bother. _Why can't people be arsed to communicate in a decent manner?_ The importance of it is something he and his older brother have always agreed upon, and they don't agree on things all that often.

[sent at 14:09] Thank you.

Sherlock is tempted to continue the conversation just to pass the time, though he can’t think of anything else to say. He abhors small talk, so this must be yet another symptom of the strange internal unrest that has been brewing.

He'd gone to see John as soon as the visiting hours began but they seemed to have little to talk about since John's roommate was listening. What does one talk about at a hospital ward, anyway? A verbal survey of the current state of John's health had not taken long, and he'd still seemed very tired and not in the mood for company. He'd apologised for being so tired, which was ridiculous — he is ill, not deliberately withdrawing from Sherlock.

It still stung, because all Sherlock has done all night and all morning was looking forward to seeing him. He feels disgustingly clingy, longing for reassurance from John that he hasn't done anything wrong or neglected to do the right things. He'd left after forty-five minutes and realised on his way back that he hadn't even eaten breakfast. Hence the sandwich he now regrets, because it sits on the plate like a physical manifestation of his guilt, smelling of congealed cheese and cold tandoori chicken.

He's tapping the phone with a nervous forefinger, tempted to use his boss as a sounding board and to vent his frustration at spending another night alone in the flat. Who else could he even ask for advice? He briefly considers texting his parents, but he doesn’t have much new information to share on John's status beyond what he'd told them via text several hours ago. Besides, he can anticipate the way his mother would drive him mad with her fussing. Sherlock knows Lestrade is on call for the second day in a row since he's the backup for a late-stage registrar; Sherlock doesn't want to intrude on his duties but then again, Dr Greg Lestrade is certainly capable of ignoring Sherlock when he thinks he needs to do so. He inhales, then taps out another message with his thumb, the fingers of his other hand drumming restlessly on the table.

[sent at 14:15] Do you think I should stay at home with John until Wednesday? He may be discharged tomorrow morning.

[From G. Lestrade at 14:21] I THOUGHT YOU SAID HED BE DISCHARG TONIGHT

[sent at 14:23] Collings was not satisfied with his labs and he has a fever still.

[From G. Lestrade at 14:28] SORRY SHERLOCK CANT SPARE YOU NEXT WEEK

[sent at 14:31] I'm aware, but if our roles were reversed, surely John would attend to me at home.

[From G. Lestrade at 14:39] YEAH HE WOULD BUT ITS DIFFERENT

[sent at 14:42] And why is that?

[From G. Lestrade at 14:47] BECAYSE YOURE DIFFERENT

_Why am I asking for advice from a man who writes in all caps?_

[sent at 14:52] I suppose I could arrange for Edgar to keep him company.

[From G. Lestrade at 14:56] THATS GOOD THAT WORKS

[sent at 14:59] You're right. Edgar should be much better equipped to attend to his needs than I am.

[From G. Lestrade at 15:03] NOT REALLY WHAT I MEANT GOT TO GO OR

[sent at 15:05] Thank you for your input.  
  


______________  
  
  


Late that evening, Sherlock surveys the flat to make sure John will have everything he might want for his convalescence. The batteries to the TV remote are dead and texting John provides instructions to find a packet of fresh ones in the broom closet. There’s only one spare in the packet, necessitating a trip to whatever place in the area might sell them. Sherlock can’t ever remember buying batteries. They’ve always just… appeared? A quick google search provides little help, so he'll just have to survey all the potential establishments close by.

Bill Wiggins is scarfing down what looks like a tuna sandwich, casually leaning against a streetlight, when Sherlock rounds the corner of Baker Street and Melcombe Street.

“You wouldn’t know where to get batteries?” he asks the younger man.

Wiggins stares at him; first, his gaze is hostile, then curious. “You’re that bloke from yesterday. Batteries?”

“Yes. AA batteries, to be precise.”

Wiggins shrugs. “Newsagent should ‘ave some.”

“How’s business?” Sherlock asks, having decided a social custom should suffice as payment for information.

“Same old, same old. Look, if I keep talkin’ to posh folks like you, punters gonna think you’re a copper and I’m snitching or whateva.”

“Posh folks like me? Last night you told me you have plenty of patrons on Ulster Terrace.”

“They send their drivers and such, innit.”

“You think I look like a police officer?”

Wiggins gives him a thorough once-over. “Dunno what you look like. Private detective, maybe,” he suggests, chuckling, "coppers ain't got the kind of money that buys suits like yours."

"Very astute of you." Sherlock half expects the dealer to ask what it is he actually does for a living, but he probably thinks it's best to know as little as possible about his clients.

Wiggins drops the empty plastic of his sandwich into a bin and turns to leave with a shrug. “Time’s money. Unless you’re lookin’ to buy, I’m going to move on.”

“And what if I am?”

 _What?!_ Sherlock scrambles to understand what he's just said.

Wiggins turns, looking sceptical. “Not selling no more single cigs. Get a pack with your batteries.”

Calculations of metabolic clearance and likelihood of NHS random drug testing swirl through Sherlock’s head. He shakes it. This isn't about using; it's about _not_ using. It's about proving to himself he's in control. _'Enduring abstinence isn't about never having weak moments — it's about learning what to do when those moments arrive_ ' is what they told him in rehab. “Dust,” he suggests, jutting up his chin and facing down Wiggins.

The dealer looks less surprised than Sherlock would have assumed. “I'm all out of that."

"I hope those idiots on Ulster Terrace enjoy their fix, then. What else do you have?"

"I’ve got biker coffee,” Wiggins says with a grin. "Though you don't look like mixes are your thing."

"With caffeine or with cocaine?"

"Dust. Ain't nobody gonna pay extra for caf."

Sherlock is aware that _biker coffee_ is the street term for methamphetamine laced with ecstacy, caffeine or cocaine. He's never seen the point of mixing anything together, save for cocaine and heroin. Dosing is hard to control, and the effects of several stimulants are not very cumulative in terms of the effects the user is after, and side effects may increase significantly. Besides, crystal meth is a ridiculous drug for low-fund lowlifes. Sherlock wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, and that's why it’s perfect: he knows he'd be betraying even more principles than he would with pure cocaine if he indulged. _I won't_.

Besides, beggars can't be choosers. “It’ll do.”

_I’m not going to use I’m not going to use why would I use I’m just going to buy it to prove I can abstain even if it's in the flat––_

He's smarter than any system within the NHS or the GMC designed to try to catch people who use illicit substances. He'll outsmart them by not touching a single milligram of what he's buying. A vile sort of pride swells within him. This is one thing in which he knows more about himself than John and Pichler and his parents combined.

“Your funeral, mate. Just don't think 'cos you've done dust you can freewheel with your doses. Start low.”

Doctor Pichler keeps telling him that avoiding difficult things is only half the battle: the real test is whether one can make the right decisions when faced with danger and fear. _I should have done this years ago_. _I should be doing this regularly, shouldn't I? Reminding myself how I've left all that behind_.

“Thirty quid for three grams,” Wiggins tells him. "First purchase discount."

Sherlock scowls and pays; the price is extortionate for such a substance cocktail.

This is the only way to prove that he's not the huge disappointment to both John and himself he suspects he is. John wouldn't understand but then again, John isn't him, hasn't lived his life, hasn't walked in his shoes. Sherlock keeps trying to find answers by asking people who are not like him, when the only expert he really has at his disposal is the one he sees in the mirror.

_I'm doing this for myself._

_____________

Once back home, he leaves the faintly lilac-coloured grain and powder mix of cocaine-laced meth in his coat pocket, opens his laptop and does eleven hours of article-writing based on his latest research. He's gone to work on just two hours of rest before, and all he needs to do tomorrow is to bring John home from the hospital. He can cope. On Monday, all he needs to do is survive ward oversight duty and a staff meeting, during which he'll say nothing because he cares not a whit about any of the items on the agenda. He'll cope. He has his cigarettes and other secrets only he can understand, and right now he can't even tell which of these makes him feel more morbidly exhilarated.  
  


_____________

On Sunday morning, as soon as Sherlock thinks the day shift staff will have come on duty, he calls the ward again for an update on how John's morning is progressing.

The nurse's report is succinct: "Doctor Watson woke up, had some yoghurt, another dose of oxycodone, and went back to sleep."

Sherlock remembers to ask about Sunday visiting hours and the typical time of a Sunday discharge.

"I don't have confirmation of a discharge yet," the nurse informs him.

"Mister Collings has informed me that his blood work is satisfactory today. There should be no reason why he wouldn't be discharged." Collings had texted him from the morning round.

"It's rare for patients to be discharged on Sundays," the nurse dismisses.

"Rare implies that it is not unheard of."

"If it happens, it'll be in the late afternoon or evening, after the surgeons on call have cleared the day's urgent operations list."

Sherlock is scandalised. "That's… _hours_ from now!" When he rounds on weekends at Denmark Hill's neurosurgical ward, he gets discharges sorted _before_ operating. That way he won't have a backlog of complaining patients and family members waiting when he gets out of theatre.

When the nurse responds with nothing but an uneasy silence, Sherlock bites out, "Visiting hours?" He assumes they are the same as on Saturday. Already in his suit, he's ready to leave the flat at a moment's notice once this is confirmed.

"Visiting hours today are from five to seven in the evening."

"Excuse me?"

"Five to seven," she repeats.

"I'm not _deaf_ , just in disbelief. Why are they so different from yesterday?"

"I don't know. Our patients receive the treatments and the rest they need during the day."

"Somehow, your ward managed to deliver both yesterday, even though the hours were very different. This is ridiculous. If he is discharged later today, why should I wait until then to visit? I need a word with Mister Collings, _now_. I tried to call but his number but it keeps going to voicemail. Transfer me."

"Mister Collings is in surgery at the moment and won't be available for some time."

 _That explains not answering his phone_. "I'll need to speak to his Registrar, then."

"I'm afraid he is still rounding on the cancer ward. I do have one of our junior doctors here…?"

"Never mind. No one but Collings can make the discharge decision, anyway," Sherlock snaps, then rings off without waiting for the nurse's reply.

He texts John to ask whether he's heard anything regarding the discharge. There is no answer, so he calls the ward again to compel someone to go check on his husband. He is told that John's mobile battery had died — nothing more sinister — and that he doesn't have a charger with him. Sherlock wants to kick himself for not realising he should have delivered it, along with John's laptop.

"John is being examined by Doctor Weir right now," the Ward Sister tells him, "I can take a phone to him once they are done."

What is the point of subjecting John to another undoubtedly painful and tedious examination? To provide training for some hapless intern? Couldn't they find someone else to pester? Sherlock decides he's irritated that there is no consistency in whether the staff call John by his first name or his proper title. "Weir? Is that the junior ENT?"

"Yes, it is."

"You'll call me if anything alarming comes up — anything at all," Sherlock demands.

"Of course, Mister Holmes."

"I _will_ be visiting in an hour," Sherlock declares.

"Visiting hours are not until this afternoon," the Ward Sister tells him firmly. "There is no longer a second patient in the room so you can take your time then."

Sherlock wonders briefly if the older man has expired or if he's been moved elsewhere. "And I'll expect an update once Collings becomes available," he adds.

"Yes, Mister Holmes."

______________  
  


The hours tick by and there are no phone calls. At noon, Sherlock re-establishes that Booze-up is a brilliant service. Originally, he’d only meant to indulge in that single delivery on Friday, but John has not been discharged yet and Sherlock is pacing like a caged panther. So what if he smokes one more cigarette? Or five? Or one more packet? If it helps him be more himself, more collected when he goes back to the Princess Royal, then those smokes will have benefited everyone. _They are also much better than the alternative_. By smoking, he's helping himself make better decisions about the meth.

At three o'clock, the registrar calls to say that John will need to spend a third night in the hospital; Collings thinks it's best to err on the side of caution, and the afternoon's lab work hasn't come back yet. Sherlock had not even been informed that such things had been ordered. Underneath the platitudes he is offered, Sherlock is able to detect that the unit is understaffed, over-stretched, and a discharge is just one more hassle they don't want to deal with.

"No reason why he couldn't go home tomorrow," the exasperated registrar finally tells him.

Sherlock is not going to take a junior's word as gospel, so he phones the nurse’s station and demands that one of them takes a phone to John.

His husband answers in good spirits; he's currently not in pain and says he feels deliciously naughty having a second helping of ice cream today since that and yoghurt is all he feels like eating. Sherlock tries to increase his motivation for coming home by listing all the ice cream flavours he's got in the freezer. John tells him to stop fretting, to come see him tonight and that he'll be home tomorrow.

 _Tomorrow_. It feels like years away. Prolongation of existence without John feels too painful to get through unaided. He shouldn't have smoked through the whole packet again. He'll need a third delivery.

In a fit of pique, Sherlock emails Doctor Pichler to inquire how one might prevent temptation instead of resisting it. She has answered his emails during the weekend before, and she often sees therapy clients on Sunday afternoon so he hopes she might be available online. The reply he gets after thirty minutes is a suggestion to make an appointment tomorrow to discuss this, coupled with a worried inquiry into why he’s asking such a thing and whether he’s feeling alright.

 _Tomorrow_. That promise cannot silence his neurotransmitters, which are screaming for something soothing in the absence of John.

He puts the bag of crystal on the kitchen counter and glares at it. _No_.

As penance for even looking at it, he texts his parents and only barely manages to discourage Violet from hopping on a train and coming _'to help_ '. He ignores the immediate call that ensues after he doesn’t answer her last two texts. He wonders if she thinks she's deciphered something in his communique that has alarmed her more than the news of John still being at the ward should have. What Violet Holmes' ‘help’ would translate to is her taking over the kitchen and micromanaging and chiding Sherlock all day long. He can tolerate his mother’s unpleasant habits better now than a few years prior, but only at a distance if he's anxious over other things. The idea of her being in close proximity right now is enough to seal the deal on returning to booze-up.com.

Delivery is fast, and soon he is soothing his nerves with five cigarettes, smoked while perched on the sitting room windowsill. Once the nicotine has overridden his anxiety, he curls up on the couch and sleeps for an hour.

_______________

Precisely at five o'clock in the evening, Sherlock is waiting at the ward entrance to be buzzed in. When he gets to the right patient room, he finds John huddled under an extra blanket. Unlike earlier in the day, he doesn't seem to be in a very good mood. Sherlock asks to see his throat and has to admit the red mush of tissue covered with congealed-looking fibrin coating looks quite disturbing.

He proudly presents John the water bottle he had couriered to the flat. It’s self-cooling, and alerts with a chime if one has not reached one’s drinking goals for the past two hours.

“You remember what happened when we got that talking alarm clock?” John asks, voice raspy and quiet.

Sherlock does. He had threatened to shoot it with John's gun.

“And you got me a talking water bottle. Well done.” John sighs, then coughs weakly.

“It doesn’t talk, it _chimes_.”

“Can it be made not to chime?”

“But it’s important to stay hydrated," Sherlock argues. "Collings says it should help with the pain. You might even want to consider waking up regularly at night to have a bit of water. You’ll have to wake up for the pain meds, anyway.”

“Believe me, for _this_ pain, water does fuck all except remind me of how hard it is to swallow.”

“You always tell me modern pain management is based on combining many mechanisms of action. I looked into this after talking to Collings; hydration really does have some evidence behind it when it comes to post-operative pain management after––”

"Sure," John interrupts tiredly. "I bet you could write a Cochrane review from everything you've been reading."

John's tone signals that this might be a barb, but it's a strange one since Sherlock doesn't consider the statement entirely unrealistic.

He places John’s laptop on the bedside cabinet. “I took the liberty of subscribing you to four different entertainment streaming services.”

“Took the liberty how? You don’t know my laptop's password.”

“As deducing your passwords goes, ‘ _handsoffyounosygit_ ’ was not much of a challenge.”

“Thanks, I guess.” The bedding shifts as John sits up to receive the laptop, after which he rubs his forehead. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get cranky; it’s just that I haven’t been able to sleep much. Lie down with my eyes closed, yes, but not really fall asleep. It feels like there’s something at the back of my throat all the time with my uvula so damned swollen.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow. How incompetent are these nurses if they can't tell the difference between a patient being genuinely asleep, and just trying to rest? Is the way John's voice sounds a bit weird still normal at this stage?

Sherlock reaches over the bed to put a hand on John's shoulder, hoping this might be understood as a gesture of comfort. He had showered, changed his clothes to make sure John wouldn’t pick up on the smell of the cigarettes. He’d even left his coat in a locker downstairs.

“What have you been up to, then?” John asks.

The truth would be: _I have been fantasising about cocaine and trying to self-medicate my anxieties about being without you by indulging in the lesser sin of feeding my nicotine addiction._

Instead, what comes out of Sherlock's mouth is: “Finished the draft for an article to the Journal of Clinical Neuroscience on that flair imaging series of residual glioblastomas.”

He’s been trying to improve the surgical success of removing as much as glioblastoma multiforme -type tumours as possible. Possibly the most malignant type of brain cancer with a dire prognosis, it’s difficult for a surgeon to find their margins since their thin tendrils reach deep into healthy tissue. MRI navigation combined with novel preoperative imaging techniques is showing some promise in the right hands. Sherlock’s hands, to be precise. It's a side project he amuses himself with when not busy with shunt development at GOSH.

“You know that article I’ve been trying to write?” John asks.

Of course, Sherlock does. John has never participated much in research, but he now has a joint project with another neuroanaesthetist to try to assess whether a midazolam infusion during aneurysm surgery might protect older patients from post-operative cognitive problems, or if it will make them worse. Sherlock had helped him design the study. It is quite simplistic, but for John all such things are new and thus alien, and it's best to stick to something any physician could do as a first step in gaining some academic merit. “Of course.”

“If you could have a look at the draft, we’d be grateful. Structuring the thing is a challenge.”

“What publication are you aiming for?”

“We haven’t decided.”

“You need to decide that first, then examine the publication's writing instructions and typical article structures. The instructions vary so much that not tailoring your article to the chosen forum will just cause a need to make lots of structural changes later.”

“Right. So, I should…”

“Read those instructions first, yes. After which I shall have a look.”

“We should probably put your name on it, too, if you end up suggesting lots of tweaks.”

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock has no need for further research credentials, especially not in some backwater anaesthesia journal. He could easily apply for and be appointed as an Associate Professor at any of London’s universities, but he hardly wants to increase the amount of teaching he must do. He’s keen to help John achieve some research credentials, though.

“I’ve stocked the fridge and freezer at home,” he says. Well, he had done the ice cream bit and turfed the rest to Edgar.

“You? How?”

“Our Ocado order has been updated.” It's irrelevant who has done that.

John smiles. “I should land myself in hospital more often.”

Sherlock can’t help it: the joke stings. In fact, it stings so hard that he finds it difficult to look at John for a moment. Doesn’t he understand what Sherlock has gone through this weekend, how hard he's trying? Doesn’t John realise that he had sworn never to let other people affect him again, and he’d taken a huge risk and jeopardised his mental equilibrium by letting someone love him, and by loving them back?

On the other hand, he hates himself for being so brittle. _It’s just a joke_.

John has gone a bit pale and arranges himself back onto the bed, lying on his side facing Sherlock. He moans a bit, “They’re just two small bits of tissue. Weird that they can just wipe a person out like this.”

“They’re the body’s first line of defence against ingested or inhaled pathogens. They have been classified both into gut-associated lymphoid tissue and mucosa-associated lymphoid tissue. Recent studies show they also produce new T cells. Hardly just inconsequential lumps.” Sherlock rises from the visitor chair and sits next to John's hip on the bed. He knows it's bad form to sit on a patient's bed, but this isn't _his_ patient — it's his husband.

“Thanks, you big nerd.” John reaches up a hand to tuck some of Sherlock’s curls behind his ear. “Glad to be rid of them even if I have fewer T-cells in the future.”

“Mm.” Suddenly, Sherlock is keen to leave. Why does interacting with John in this environment feel so awkward? He'd come expecting that the contact would actually calm him down, but it's somehow making things worse.

“Collings sent a message when he left the OR to say I can go home tomorrow afternoon, assuming I feel a bit better.”

“Is it normal, being this fatigued? Granted, this is not an elective tonsillectomy, but still.”

“CRP’s still above a hundred but coming down, and the fever’s not gone yet.”

“Ah, the lab results came through. Makes sense, then, to continue inpatient treatment.” Sherlock accepts the reasoning, but he doesn't _like_ it. He glances at John's IV. “Glucose-containing fluids? I thought those were generally unnecessary perioperatively.”

“I’m not eating much.” There are two small juice cartons with straws on the bedside cabinet, their foil seals unbroken.

“You should at least drink as much as you can.”

“Nag, nag. If you’ve got whisky in your back pocket, sure.”

Sherlock sighs. "Alcohol would sting."

John's eyes are drooping. "Go home; not much to see or do here."

Discouraged and angry, though he doesn't quite know who the irritation is directed at, Sherlock leaves. He hopes he hasn't betrayed just how much the visit has unsettled him. Probably not, since John is focusing on his own pain at the moment.  
  
  
  



	7. Discharge

It's Sunday night. There's a documentary on the struggles of beekeepers in South America on one of the streaming services he'd acquired for John which keeps Sherlock entertained while he forces down a small bowl of chocolate ice cream as his second meal of the day.

The food does nothing to ease his restlessness, but at least he manages to consume it. _I never did finish that sandwich. Or was that yesterday?_ His appetite is always the first to go when anxiety takes up residence. If only there was a discernible reason for it, but he cannot work out what that could be. Somehow, it's everything and nothing at the same time. It makes his bow hand tremble, his stomach churn and his concentration shatter.

At half-past eleven he gives in to the compulsion to call the ward. Sherlock compels the nurse to go check on him _properly_ and learns that John is sleeping — not just resting. There are no new developments in his recovery that the nurse can think of, and Sherlock must content himself with the fact that no news can be interpreted as good news.

He texts John goodnight because he can't have his husband waking up thinking Sherlock hasn't spared a single thought to his well-being during the night. Only after he clicks _send_ does he realise John doesn't often put his mobile on silent for the night.

[23.49] I shall collect you after work tomorrow.

He nearly adds SH out of habit. John would laugh.

There is no reply — further confirmation that the nurse's assessment had been accurate. If John wakes up in the middle of the night because of pain or the alien bed and the foreign surroundings and checks his phone, Sherlock hopes that the message might cheer him up.

Does discussing John's discharge cheer _Sherlock_ up? Not really — there's one more Johnless night to be endured and the fact that he feels conflicted about every turn their lives have taken since Friday. He must want John home. Of _course_ he does. So why is _dread_ the first word that comes to mind when he thinks of the moment when John returns to the flat? He's probably using the wrong vocabulary. After all, he is terribly bad at recognising and naming emotions belonging to him or others. 

He spends an hour and a half of working on the Alban Berg violin concerto, the sheet music for which he had recently picked up. He hasn't worked on many diatonic pieces before and had been looking forward to expanding his repertoire, but perhaps it's not the right time for such a piece. What he craves are the familiar emotional landscapes of pieces from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, so after gritting his teeth through the _un poco piu animato_ section he shoves the pages into the bookcase and spreads out the tablature for Rode's B flat major concerto, hoping its refined but optimistic tone would soothe his nerves. The intricate semiquaver start of the solo part is like a chirping bird in the reeds, then turns flirtier with some almost Mozart-like undertones. It's not that well-known or flattering a piece, but it is one he has kept in good shape in his repertoire after learning it as one of his first concertos under the tutelage of a teacher he liked. It's sprinkled with Baroque influences he can appreciate but also caters to his taste for passages requiring technical prowess with light, springy notes that would feel right at home in a much later-era comedic opera intro.

Two playthroughs of the solo parts and five cigarettes leave him so pleasantly drained that he ends up napping on the sofa. His dreams are a hellish maelstrom of John getting shot and bleeding out, random memories from medical school and snapshots from the worse parts of his years as a neurosurgical trainee. Somehow, John keeps popping up in these scenes to provide a scathing commentary on what choices Sherlock is making and how he is conducting himself.

He is startled violently awake just after two in the morning, cold sweat prickling his neck and his chest heaving. He swallows down bile and gathers the covers tighter around himself, feeing chilled to the bone and wanting protection from the empty dark of the bedroom.

There will be no more rest tonight. The sleeping tablets he’d been prescribed when John had been in Afghanistan have expired and he wouldn’t take one, anyway, since it’s been a while since he’s been on them. He'd worry they might affect his ability to operate tomorrow. He's not even sure the blister packet is still in the house; John periodically goes through the medicine shelf in the bathroom cabinet and takes everything that's expired to the pharmacy.

Sherlock lies awake, wishing that John were here to scoot closer and drape an arm around him. It doesn't take long until the anxiety drives him out of the bedroom. After some frantic pacing and rummaging around his coat pocket he drops onto the sitting room sofa. He upends the small plastic bag onto the coffee table and stares, mesmerised, at the slightly violet-tinted crystalline chunks surrounded by white, fine powder. His hands are steepled, the tips of his forefingers resting on his upper lip, and it is a masochistic joy he feels from _not_ touching the meth and cocaine mixture. He has no experience of the effects of such a cocktail and, having picked such a pointless, inelegant street drug as crystal methamphetamine, is something of a deterrent. He feels a pride swell in his self-control as minutes pass. John should be proud of him, but John doesn’t really understand these things at all. He doesn’t understand that managing an addiction is not a business of actions but a business of electing _not_ to do things. It is a business of negotiating with oneself, an exercise in putting pleasure off indefinitely and calling it sobriety. To use is to feel an intoxicating recklessness that is the sharpest blade of the seduction, followed by the pharmacological effects themselves. Sherlock's willpower is all that stands between success and failure, life and death, purpose and destruction. The empty air between him and the small plastic bag is a nuclear launch code unused, a trigger not pulled. It's a precipice over the most beautiful landscape, and to take a step forward would mean plummeting into oblivion. He remembers all too well what it is like to take that step, to long for a sense of not feeling anything. Once, any price to pay would have been acceptable because he assumed it was the pinnacle of his existence. It's not — there are other, more elusive things which are more rewarding. Not in the moment, but in the sum total of his life story.

His career. John.

He's not quite there yet; he's not yet dangling over the edge and feeling the pull of ecstatic damnation. Damn them all — John, Doctor Pichler, anyone who's ever tried to convince him that the prophecies of his diagnosis and his mother are not predestination. Damn them for the hope they have made sprout through the concrete of his self-loathing. All those years ago, after understanding that the arm's length at which Victor held him was no long-term life plan, Sherlock had chosen medicine over speed-balling, and he would choose medicine over and over again. When he was young, a quick oblivion was better than a more gradual reward of the long game, but he has so much more perspective now. Add John to the mix, and the scales tip — no bag of white powder could ever be lighter on his conscience than knowing who he'd betrayed. That's not to say he couldn't ever relapse, wouldn't ever feel rotten enough to need the needle more, but that moment has not yet arrived, and John and he have gone through some pretty rotten times together.

After lighting a cigarette, he sweeps the mixture of white powder and lilac crystals off the table and onto his palm, walks to the open window and tips his hand. Some larger chunks happen to fall onto the hat of an older gentleman who stops, removes his hat and looks up. Sherlock disappears from the window, heart pounding. He wonders whether an exercise of drug defenestration is a criminal offence. Only after minutes must have passed does he dare to peer over the windowsill again. The man is gone, the illicit substances washed away by the heavy droplets of rain pelting the streets.

Sherlock goes to the kitchen and washes his hands under water as hot as he can endure. Its warmth flowing between his fingers is the first soothing thing he's found since attempting to retreat to bed. Perhaps he should take a bath. He wishes he could call John, to tell him of the test he'd staged for himself. He knows he can’t. This is one of the things which will forever separate him from his husband, but it’s alright. John doesn’t have to always understand him, but he has demonstrated empathy for Sherlock, at least when the latter behaves according to John's standards, and that needs to be enough. Sherlock knows better than to push his luck by risking John's opinion of him deteriorating further.

 _I purchased street drugs so that I could refrain from using them_ ; he imagines telling John.

 _Can't you continue to not use that shit without some of it being in our flat?_ He imagines John asking. No, John really wouldn't understand. He'd be too angry to say anything for a while.

Sherlock is unsure, suddenly, whether he'd based the decision to get rid of the drugs on fear or certainty of victory over the cravings of his brain. Should he have treated tonight as just the first hurdle — held on to the bag so that he could seek consolation repeatedly from being able to resist the temptation? He grunts in frustration, descends upon the sofa again, and decides to call Collings. Why should he care if the ENT detests being bothered late at night? It's hardly different from being on call to which Collings must be well-accustomed. Once his colleague picks up, Sherlock tries to refrain from whining about the slowness of the lab results and the lack of immediate call-back from the junior earlier in the day but ends up still voicing his opinions on how the ENT unit should run if they cared at all about patient satisfaction and efficacy. He inquires about Collings' assessment of John's progress and asks him to confirm the discharge schedule. Listening to Collings explain patiently that John is expected to make a full recovery, Sherlock is surprised to find that the reassurance vexes instead of soothing his nerves. He knows he shouldn't have called, but he can't help himself, and that is what's so disheartening. He just can't let things go, and that must be why all these old, useless things are slipping into his dreamscape. _Ruminative thinking_ is what Doctor Pichler would call such a phenomenon when it happens consciously during the day. _You're fixating on things because you accept that you can't control them_ , the psychiatrist explains in Sherlock's head.

It's infuriating how no one can offer him any reassurance about things getting better once John comes home. They may have answers about physical recovery and sick leave length and such, but they cannot predict what will go on in Sherlock's head. _How can people endure this, not being able to do anything useful for the people they care about and their brains insisting on wasting time on useless things like some neural hamster on a wheel?!_

"Um––" Collings replies, sounding confounded.

Sherlock realises he must have verbalised at least some of his frustration.

"If it helps, I kind of know how that feels," Collings finally muses, "when my wife had pre-eclampsia and our son was born a preemie, I couldn't do much to help either of them. Well, I mean, I couldn't do much _medically_ for them."

"And?" _Why does Collings think I would find any of this useful? John is not pregnant._

"I only realised afterwards that I _was_ useful because I was there with her, kept the household up and running, kept people up to date, tried to maintain a sense of normalcy. I _was_ being useful, just not by being a doctor. Learned to give myself some slack because what was going on wouldn't be easy for anyone, doctor or no doctor."

Sherlock would welcome being the doctor instead of just a spouse on the side-lines; at least then he'd know what sort of behaviour would be expected of him. Now, he's consigned to the role of husband, and the jury's out whether he possesses any of the required abilities.

"You don't need to worry," Collings promises, "John will be alright."

 _Is this truly some strange version of worry?_ _How does it differ from anxiety brought on by something else? How can people tell the difference? What is the evolutionary purpose of worrying about things one has no control over?_

"Obviously he'll be alright," Sherlock replies indignantly. Other possibilities are as unlikely as they are unacceptable.  
  


## _______________

Work is a safe haven on Monday. A patient has an acoustic neurinoma that has grown through the bones sheltering the inner ear, necessitating the ENT unit to ask for the assistance of a neurosurgeon in removing parts of it extending into the cerebrum. As always, Sherlock had insisted that the operation be undertaken at King's instead of Princess Royal, though now he regrets the decision since he'll have to travel the distance in the afternoon. Still, he's content for the interesting case and for having a familiar King's OR team: he doesn't often get to operate in that particular bit of brain geography. Collings is off duty after covering the consultant duties all weekend, so one of the ENT unit’s senior surgeons, an older German female trained in South Africa by the name of Sandra Kleinhempel, is operating with Sherlock. Kleinhempel is many years his senior, and he enjoys the chance to pick up some pointers and advice from such an experienced surgeon. She just might be in the same league as a world-renowned ENT specialist by the name of Moriarty, with whom Sherlock's brief educational relationship had been as short as it had been problematic. She shares Sherlock's penchant for classical music, and they have both a good sense of when to keep out of each other’s way when operating. The atmosphere in the OR is quiet, relaxed and polite, which allows Sherlock to focus on the surgical field without having to worry about social conduct.

Once the operation is done, Sherlock's restlessness picks up again since he can't banish entirely the fear that someone might come up with a new excuse to keep John imprisoned at Princess Royal for yet another night. Dictating his surgical notes is taking four times longer than usual because his train of thought keeps slipping back to John. _Finally,_ _he'll be home_. Not that Sherlock knows how he should act when that happens. Right now, he just wants John back.

The rules at Princess Royal are that whoever comes to pick a patient up from the ENT ward must come all the way up to their room so that they, too, will hear the discharge instructions the patient is given. Sherlock asks Edgar to come along so that he gets all the pertinent info for keeping John company during the next few days. John is not aware of this plan; Sherlock will accept no arguments against it, so it would be pointless to raise the subject beforehand. John is given a discharge bag containing a disposable emesis bowl, a juice box, tissues and post-discharge instructions. Sherlock removes the bag from his lap and deposits it with Edgar. _That's what he's for, to assist_.

John raises a brow at this just as he had at Edgar's presence when they had arrived, but he says nothing. Edgar is in the front seat of the cab, ready to make some more notes as they make their way home via the NVS Pharmacy at 46 Baker Street. John has been prescribed paracetamol, an anti-inflammatory and oxycodone; Sherlock would have expected co-codamol, which contains the milder opioid codeine. He asks John about it.

"They tried that at Bastion, but I must be a slow metaboliser since it did fuck all," John explains, "and tramadol makes me throw up. Are we going to have a problem with this?" he asks, lifting the bottle of liquid oxycodone from the paper bag.

"I detest your tone and your use of the plural form. You sound as though you think you're supposed to manage _me_ instead of your pain." Sherlock crinkles his nose in distaste as John lowers the bottle back into the bag. "I never did oxy. Well, much," he adds quietly while glancing in the rear-view mirror. Their driver has headphones on, and if Edgar is surprised by this revelation from Sherlock's past, he's adept at hiding it.

"I just don't want you to be uncomfortable with this in the house," John says.

"How would you go about it if I were? Dangle it from a string tied to the windowsill? Lock it in your gun box? Shove it behind the toilet seat?"

"Don't be daft."

"No need to hide it. I'd find it anyway if I was… inclined. But I won't be, since I'm clean, remember? It's yours. You'll need it. It would be the lowliest thing to do to deprive you of it."

Sherlock has no idea whether he's explained himself properly — whether any of his explanations sound convincing. He feels guilty even though he's done nothing wrong. _Well, John might think that even buying the damned things is incriminating._ _People get so pearl-clutchy whenever drugs are even mentioned, and that goes for healthcare employees, too._

"I think I will need them, yes." John grimaces. "I am so not looking forward to the next few weeks. At the ward they at least had the quick-acting stuff for when it really hurts a lot."  
  


## _______________  
  


  
Whatever kind of return home Sherlock had imagined for John's discharge, reality is decidedly less dramatic. John barely glances at the carefully arranged selection of ice creams in the freezer which Sherlock presents to him. John drags himself to the bedroom and falls asleep, leaving Sherlock feeling like a Golden retriever who has fetched a mallard from the pond only to return to discover that the rest of the hunting party have forgot about it and left him behind.

It might be because he’s a bit cross with Sherlock, now. As carefully as Sherlock had aired his coat and changed his clothes, John had caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on him as they stood at the front door. John dismissed Edgar quickly and effectively right then and there, and the minute the PA had left in the same cab they'd arrived in, John's jaw had set and he'd given Sherlock a piece of his mind.

“It was just three nights, Sherlock. _Three nights_. I’m not in any state to watch you and for _once_ , I hoped you could fend for yourself and keep your nerves in check just for a moment, but no. It’s time for patches, then. Could have picked them up just now.”

“No,” Sherlock had protested. “Don’t worry about that, now. It's not important. I can quit. I don't need the patches.”

“I'm not having you smoking again. You _promised_. Why is it you've got this intellectual black spot where the cigs are concerned? You're a _doctor_ , for fuck's sake! Why the hell would you marinate yourself in that shit?” That being said, John marched up the stairs in a more spirited manner than was probably good for someone who’s just had surgery.

Sherlock feels oddly petulant about the argument; he _wants_ to smoke because it helps more than the patches and much more than any of the more intense alternatives that could please his brain receptors. John doesn't know what else he's just denied from himself; smoking is such a small vice in comparison. Can’t John see that he needs nicotine right now? He can quit, he’s always quit when he needs to. If he's to get through the next weeks, he needs the feel of the cigarette between his fingers, the caress of it on his lips, the deep, slightly suffocating and overwhelming rush of inhalation into his lungs more than he needs some lukewarm satisfaction that he might not get lung cancer later thanks to quitting. He's never been good at long-term plans. John _knows_ this about him.

The bedroom door is closed, and Sherlock wonders whether John wants him to sleep on the sofa. He has no idea which arguments in a relationship warrant such an approach. John has never banished him to the sofa before, but he has retreated there occasionally when sharing a bed has felt too suffocating, too intense and too risky in terms of being touched when he can't tolerate it. Does he want physical consolation now? How much angrier would John get at him if he opened the door?

He draws a deep breath and presses the handle. "John? May I––– um––"

"Come here," John mutters, eyes closed where he's resting clothed on the messy bed. "Get in, you idiot."

"You closed the door," Sherlock argues, vacillating still by the foot of the bed. He curses inwardly for not realising John may have expected him to tidy the bedroom, perhaps even to change the sheets?

"I closed it because I didn't know if you were going to start doing something that would make noise," John explains. He grabs a throw and spreads it on his legs while Sherlock settles to the opposite side of the bed. John never sleeps on the side he has now taken over, and this side of the bed feels foreign and wrong for Sherlock. _Tedious normal people would probably not be bothered by this. They probably wouldn't even notice the dip in the mattress is different and the pillow inferior._

John's arm settles on his stomach. Sherlock decides this is good; when John is very angry with him, he tends to refrain from such contact. Should he ask about John's pain level, fetch him a glass of water so that he can take his pills without having to leave the bed? Sherlock doesn't want to leave this bed now that he has John back in it.

"I can practically feel you thinking so damned hard over there," John grumbles, "we're home. Stop plotting whatever it is you're plotting and have a nap with me."

If anything, Sherlock had been trying to decipher what plot the universe has concocted for the next few days. A sigh lulls John's breathing into a sleeper pattern while Sherlock lies awake, fingers laced on his stomach, his mind looping through everything they've said to each other today.

## _______________  
  


For the first three days, John doesn’t really do anything except 'recover'. Sherlock has made a note that this consists of taking pills and resting. He has offered to renegotiate with Lestrade about taking some family leave to be at home for John, but this has been waved away repeatedly. At least he's willing to put up with Edgar's presence in the flat.

"Stop hovering," John keeps telling Sherlock with a smile. "Bloody mother hen, you are," he'd said yesterday.

So, Sherlock goes to work, directs Edgar remotely via Slack to manage all their chores, and comes home as quickly as early can in the afternoons. He then hovers around the bedroom where John is resting, attempts to play that dratted Alban Berg which seems to mock him or drapes himself over the sofa in the sitting room. It’s an infuriatingly tedious routine — boring yet anxiety-provoking. John has always kept domestic things interesting just by existing and demanding occasional attention, but now, he mostly sleeps only to jerk awake every fifteen minutes or so because of the damned oxycodone. Nights are restless because Sherlock still keeps having nightmares and John keeps having pain necessitating waking up for extra tablets.

Sherlock's need for proper companionship from John is not being met. It isn't about sex — although sex could certainly help in convincing his brain that nothing is wrong. No, Sherlock is certain that his continuing anxiety must be more a question of John being physically present in the flat but not at all engaged with Sherlock in any meaningful way. Recovery seems to mean being totally inwardly focused this time; when John had come home from Afghanistan, it had been the opposite. He was on Sherlock's case all the time, then, hounding and berating. Their level of interaction now is even odder, and it leaves Sherlock feeling useless and achingly lonely. Why does he keep thinking back to the time when John was recovering from his shoulder wound, how he retreated from intimacy and contact, and how that pushed their relationship onto the rocks? The disaster with the halo put even more strain on their marriage, and those months are not something Sherlock would willingly revisit. That time period seems to have cemented some fears in him that he should never take for granted all the progress they've made in their marriage, because he could always mess things up badly enough to lose John. Still, it was very different to what's going on now, so why would Sherlock's brain bother with all that?

He knows that most of what's making things problematic right now is his fault because it's his brain that keeps seeing demons where there are none. His insecurity in being able to manage relationships is resurfacing with a vengeance; he is so terrible at knowing instinctively what needs to be done to help his husband. Everything he tries seems to be ineffective until he's at his wits' end and retreated too deeply into his own head to be able to read what John tries to communicate. When he is at work but not operating, he prowls the hospital, texts John and frets because he feels the pull of home. But, as soon as he gets home, he paces about aimlessly while John watches TV or sleeps those fifteen-minute micro-naps, neither of them able to make the time go any faster.

Doctor Pichler had emailed Sherlock yesterday, asked if he wants to book a session. She'd referred to the message he'd sent her that night when he'd been more tempted to use than he'd been in years. But he didn't use, did he? He disposed of the cocaine-meth mixture. Why would he need her if he could do that on his own? He tells her he's too busy with assisting John with his recovery to consider a session in the near future.

## _______________

  
Five days after John's discharge, Sherlock is sitting by the kitchen table with his laptop open to an article he's been trying to start reading for an hour. He wants a cigarette so badly he gets the shakes just thinking about it. In the end, he'd relented to the patches. He's up to three of them a day and they are doing fuck all to help with his nerves. The only thing that is keeping him calm is being in the OR, and he is grateful for that one place where he can focus completely on the task at hand, but it's the weekend, now. No escape from the oppressive air in the flat that might just be all in his head.

He grabs his phone and types up a message to Edgar. He knows he should turn to Doctor Pichler rather than him, but he's not in the mood for how she would want to explore this further, to sink below the surface level in getting to _why_ Sherlock needs such counsel. _Not now_.

He brings up the Slack desktop client to the general channel and starts typing.

'I require advice.'

He can imagine Edgar wearing his hallmark attentive expression as he reads the message on his iPad.

 _Edgar is typing_ , Slack informs Sherlock.

'How can I help?' is the PA's reply.

'Have you ever had to attend to a family member who's poorly in a way that would require weeks to recover to full health?' Sherlock asks.

It takes some time for a reply to arrive. Sherlock wonders if he's overstepped, somehow — asked for a detail too intimate.

'Flatmate tore his Achilles tendon and broke ankle two years ago. On crutches for weeks, poor thing,' Edgar replies.

Sherlock had not remembered that his PA has a flatmate. Should he have demonstrated more interest in the man's private life? After all, Edgar has shared some very personal things with him such as his ADHD diagnosis. Is or was this flatmate male or female? Is the term a euphemism for something else?

'Are you still on good terms?' Sherlock asks.

'Yes, very.'

'What did you do to make them feel better?'

'Oh, it just takes time.'

 _Edgar is typing_ , says Slack. This lasts for an irritatingly long time, but Sherlock endures the wait because it might mean there is more detailed advice forthcoming.

'He was grumpy as hell for the first ten days. Too tired to be polite. I was running around like a house-elf because he couldn't put any weight on the foot at all. Cranky from the pain, too. It was hard because my client at the time was being very demanding and I felt like I was being pulled in too many directions.'

'How did you get through that?'

'I guess things just fixed themselves as he got better and no longer had to fetch and carry everything to the same degree. Once he got off the crutches and into a boot, we could get out of the house and the fresh air helped. His mood improved, and we decided to book a holiday for a couple of months later as something to look forward to. They say time heals all, and it really did in our case.'

To Sherlock, it sounds like Edgar had struggled with the situation. Perhaps other people do, too, and it's not just him? How analogous is Edgar to the average person? Granted, the PA has a neuropsychiatric condition, but he is very good at reading emotions and anticipating the needs of others. He's managed to not piss John off this week which is quite a feat. Sherlock decides that if a person who has made a profession out of supporting and helping others had struggled with even just a flatmate — assuming the term is objectively correct — then perhaps it is more natural than Sherlock had been willing to believe that he should struggle with helping a spouse.

This makes him feel at least a bit better, but he knows this respite is unlikely to last long.

## _______________

  
  
It takes eight days of John's recovery for Sherlock to reach a stage of teetering on the edge of stark staring bonkers. He knows — he's a surgeon, for heaven's sake — that recovery takes time and saps cognitive resources, but it's his own patience that's wearing thin. John's immune system has taken a hammering, and his pain management regime is a struggle that requires understanding and support. Sherlock _knows_ all this, but the suffocating sense of stale convalescence in the flat is grating on his nerves like nails on a blackboard.

John isn't a good, agreeable patient. Patience is not something John has in very significant quantity in normal life except when it has come to putting up with Sherlock. His acceptance of Sherlock's foibles and eccentricities is normally remarkable, but it seems to evaporate when he's ill or injured. Exactly as Sherlock had predicted, John continues making a fuss about keeping the oxy away from his sight. John also tries to wean himself off of it too early for some idiotic reason and has been trying to get by on just ibuprofen and paracetamol at night.

When he wakes up once again almost teary in pain, Sherlock gets up and brings him the second sealed oxycodone box with a glass of cold water. Working out where John had hidden it had been child's play.

"Stop acting like an idiot," he tells John. "You keep lecturing all the surgical and anaesthesia registrars that mismanaged acute pain is a risk factor for chronic pain problems. Walk the walk."

"I hate the stuff. You know it gives me fifteen minutes of sleep and then wonky nightmares. Weird I could live with; terrifying is not nice."

 _That makes two of us, and I'm not even on oxycodone_. "I've been told that those side effects ease off after the first week."

"Yeah, just about when the addiction risk starts to kick in."

"Collings said you need to manage the pain responsibly. You need to sleep more than you need to avoid the possible side effects. As long as you're dealing with acute post-operative pain, the addictive aspects of oxy shouldn't pose a problem."

"I don't like having them in the house." 

Sherlock glares at him. _He's like a broken record._ "Don't use me as an excuse, John."

## _______________

  
The next day, a Wednesday, John finally puts some decent trousers on and drags himself to the sitting room to watch a movie.

“ _Die Hard_ ,” Sherlock reads out loud from the screen when the opening credits come on. He’s perched his computer on his knees on the sofa, idly throwing occasional glances at the TV.

“It's a classic.”

“It does not sound like an uplifting piece of entertainment, and the title makes no sense. Hard to terminate? To die in a gruesome and spectacular manner?”

“Hard to kill, I guess.”

"I predict there will be multiple attempts at termination of the hero by various antagonists, which he miraculously survives."

“You're such an oracle. Watch it with me?"

Sherlock shakes his head and rolls his eyes to protest John’s taste in entertainment and tries to re-immerse himself in his article editing. The comments from the journal have not given him a very favourable impression of the intelligence of the referees, but they must be taken into account in order for the journal to agree to publish the piece. Sherlock has been lectured throughout his career about needing to 'play well with others' and he hates how that often means pandering to the weatherwane tastes of mediocre academics.

John eventually falls asleep while watching the film and is irritable when he stirs an hour later. After getting them both fresh glasses of water in the kitchen, Sherlock goes to the bedroom and picks up the packet of oxycodone to bring it to John.

As he hands it over, he says, "You missed a dose when you were asleep. I didn't want to wake you but maybe I should have?"

John looks closely at the blister pack, and Sherlock watches him scrutinising the unbroken seals. There is something so deliberate in the action that he suddenly realises John suspects that he might had taken one.

A flare of indignant anger clenches the muscles around Sherlock's jaw; he can barely get the words out, " _No, John_. I did not take one of your tablets. And the fact that, instead of attending to the pain you're obviously in, you are focussed on suspecting me of something like that is…" Sherlock takes a moment of track down the right word: " _…despicable_."

"Sherlock, I…"

He doesn't wait to hear the explanation. He's already in the hall and taking his coat off the peg.

"Sherlock, don't be like that."

The front door makes a satisfying slam behind Sherlock before he strides away down the street, heading towards the place where he had last seen Wiggins. It would serve John right if he just went off and got high; sobriety obviously has no role in John's opinion of him. But as soon as that thought ricochets around his head, he groans. He can feel the anticipatory firing of his neurons, can imagine painfully well the ensuing dopamine rush.

His steps halt on the pavement. _I shouldn't do it. I shouldn't prove John right._

Soon, he does spot Wiggins outside a Pret A Manger, but his determined anger makes him stick to the opposite side of the street. He'd had a momentary wobble which could have proven catastrophic thanks to random drug testing for NHS employees, but hasn't he already proven — to himself, above all — that he's learned his lessons? Those around him cannot even understand the reality of what it's like to resist such a thing. _I'm not weak like my mother thinks._ This is the one area in which he is certain he has learned some life lessons — picked up some of those condescendingly named coping mechanisms. What about John? Has the therapy given him insight how he behaves when his fuse is short and his focus elsewhere than their relationship? Why must Sherlock change when others get a free pass for their shortcomings?

It suddenly hits Sherlock like a brick to the brain what has felt so oppressive and frightening and familiar about John's absence and then convalescence in the flat. The answer has been staring him right in the face in the form of intrusive thoughts and nightmares from which he wakes up too upset to even stay in bed.

He's been there for John before, so why does this manageable thing, from which John is certain to recover, making Sherlock feel as though he's facing an insurmountable obstacle?

What his mind keeps returning to is how things were between the two of them after Afghanistan, but why? Why _now_ , when it has nothing to do with the very stable and satisfactory state of their relationship these days? Things are so much better, so why would he feel this defeated and on edge?

Has the way he'd started to feel before John's surgery and which has got worse since dragged to the surface old, useless things that have happened between in their marriage — just like that dreadful Christmas had bubbled up the bloated corpse of all the problems in his relationship with his mother?


	8. No Apologies Necessary

When Sherlock returns to the flat after walking off his anger, John is back in the bedroom again. Sherlock prepares him a bowl of yoghurt — without granola since it would be too coarse. He adds a drizzle of honey and delivers the meal to the bedside table besides a snoring John. He flinches awake when Sherlock announces "dinner" in a flat monotone. Sherlock then makes a hasty retreat into the bathroom for a shower before John gets a chance to say anything.

Once he's done with the shower and he's applied the necessary hair products, he slaps three fresh nicotine patches and decides he will spend the night on the sofa. He won't be able to fall asleep, so it doesn't really matter where he stares at the ceiling, does it? He is disappointed to check his calendar to learn that he only has rounds and outpatient clinic work tomorrow. Perhaps it's for the best, though, that he won't be operating. The stress is starting to take a toll on his sense of equilibrium and sleep being so elusive is making matters worse. He can function on very little food and sleep, but extended periods of heightened anxiety drain him.

The chirp of his phone announces an incoming text, and Sherlock realises he's wasted two hours deep in thought on the couch. Sighing, he opens the message from John.

[01.18] I'm sorry.

He's been told that using capslock is one way of showing anger. His hands are shaky as he types up a reply, anger flooding in again. If John didn't do and say things that question his integrity, there would be no _need_ for useless apologies that cannot erase those words from Sherlock's memory.

[01.18] I was ASLEEP

Those infernal dancing three dots stop him from dropping the phone back on the coffee table. After the chirp comes John's response.

[01.19] Then I am doubly sorry.

This second apology does little to assuage Sherlock's annoyance.

[01.19] Do you actually need something?

[01.20] You.

 _Typical of John, this lack of specificity._ It adds to Sherlock's annoyance, and he taps out an immediate reply.

[01.20] What SPECIFICALLY do you require me to bring? Water? Drugs? Food? New tonsils?

He wonders if the message he's typed can manage to convey the intended sarcasm. He's never sure.

[01.21] Just you. I always need you.

Sherlock looks at the heart emoji following the words and sighs. Generally speaking, such imagery annoys him — this one more than most. What is supposed to _mean?_ Is it what Doctor Pichler would call an olive branch? He's discussed with her how annoyed he gets when people don’t just say what they mean. John should know by now that Sherlock needs him to be clear, not vague and abstract.

He remembers well the session with her during which they'd talked about this. It had ended with him pacing in her office, spitting out the definitions: "Analogy — that's simple enough a way to explain something by comparing it to another thing. I'm pacing 'like a lion in a zoo'." He had quirked his fingers in that annoying air quote thing that Anderson likes to use too much.

"Why are you like a lion in a zoo?" she had asked.

He snapped back at her, "Like that lion, I am frustrated at not being able to make sense of my situation or retreat from it. By the time I work through all the possible meanings that an analogy, metaphor or simile could signify the person who sent it has disappeared from the conversation or changed the subject."

She'd told him he wasn't in a cage and he should walk out of the office, down to the ground floor and then, if he was feeling up to it, he could come back with his excess restless energy spent.

He had walked out and not returned to the session. Frustration had made him as incoherent as he always is when other people require him to discuss his emotional landscape. That's why he doesn't want to book another session with her. It would be hard to express to her what he is feeling about John's recovery, and shouldn't he have learned enough tricks from her by now to try to work things out on his own? He knows that the stupid emoji is a symbol for a heart, which makes no sense; it's nothing like the cardiac organ sitting in everyone's chest. It's therefore more like a metaphor, an implicit simile, which means it's literally false. John is not referring to an actual heart; what he is trying to communicate is that he loves Sherlock. _Why doesn't he just say it?_ And why say it now when it's a gesture of goodwill and not a genuine spontaneous declaration? It would feel so much more sincere in a neutral situation.

Sherlock is annoyed with himself, more than he is with John. _It's not like this is new_. He'd felt equally useless at Bastion and then after when John had spiralled into depression. Every attempt of his to defuse the tension in the flat had detonated things between them. The Dengue when they were out in Malosa had terrified him but it had been different; it would be _his_ fault if he failed to deal with the threat. John could have _died_ , but that threat was purely physical. After Bastion they were stuck in this flat together just as they are now––

Sherlock knows he is supposed to be patient and supportive. That's the theory that everyone has always told him is at the heart of a good relationship. When John is not ill, it works. Sherlock is patient — well, as patient as he is capable of being — and he always tries his best to be supportive; John reciprocates by responding and appreciating that fact.

Except when he's ill. Then things just… don't work. They didn't work at all after Bastion, and Sherlock had no roadmap for a situation where patience and support were not met with the appropriate response — gratitude and amicability? People claim illness can bring couples closer. _But how?_

Pichler would probably tell him to stop overthinking this. Remote, turn-based interpersonal communication is harder than face-to-face, and it appears that he is the one responsible for breaking this logjam. He's been summoned into the bedroom, so to the bedroom he must go instead of vibrating out of his skin in the sitting room.

He gets up and pads down the wall, feeling the cold wooden floorboards under his bare feet. Pushing open the bedroom door, in the dim light, he sees John has pulled down the duvet on Sherlock's side of the bed. He discards his dressing gown; he'd put a pair of pyjamas on after the shower.

John pats the pillow on Sherlock's side. "Come get warm."

Sherlock snuggles into his usual position as the little spoon and waits for the inevitable as John scoots close and arranges the duvet on them both.

Here it comes: "Christ, your feet are like blocks of ice."

The edge of Sherlock's mouth curls up joylessly; it's the same every night. It will take about a half an hour for their body heats to equalise, their breathing to synchronise and their muscle memories to pull them into sleep curled around one another or at least one appendix draped across the other's torso.

"I trust you," John whispers, then kisses the nape of Sherlock's neck. "You've been responsible about stuff for years — nothing that a single packed of something prescribed for me should be able to endanger, hm?"

Sherlock hums a confirmation.

"The oxy's making me a bit moody, I think. I just need you to be the clear-headed one right now since I'm a bit useless." John chuckles, then trails tiny kisses down the side of Sherlock's neck muscles on the left side. "Can't manage anything very sporty, but if you want…" he trails out and reaches around Sherlock's waist to slip a hand into his pyjamas. He's not hard — how could he be? This was not what he'd been expecting, but he feels an urgency to accept the offering, a hunger for closeness that would make him accept any kind of contact right now. He'll need to scramble to get to the right mindset, but the longish abstinence should aid with letting his libido take over. After all, he hadn't even managed to masturbate when John had been at the hospital. _John never calls it that; he uses more colloquial, even lewd terms._

John has slipped three fingers down to curl around his balls, and from there he takes a tentative stroke up the soft shaft. Sherlock's breath hitches, and he only barely resists the urge to squirm, to wiggle away from the sudden assault on his senses.

"Alright?" John whispers.

Sherlock gives a noncommittal hum and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to focus on the warmth of John's bare chest against his silk-draped back, the way John's exhalations shift the hairs in his neck. John tightens his grip on his still mostly soft cock, shifting the foreskin gently to coax him to fuller hardness. He knows to be firm enough, but not too rough.

Were Sherlock feeling like usual self, it would most certainly work, but tonight all it does is short-circuit his nerves, make him tense up. There is no pressure building somewhere deep in the internal cradle of his coccyx, no swelling desperation for more friction. He realises he's grabbed a handful of top sheet and is squeezing it hard to divert at least some of his brain's attention away from where John's hand feels like too much. He is now alternating gently rolling and teasing the bollocks between his fingertips and giving the shaft — still half-mast — firmer strokes with a flick of his thumb across the tip.

Sherlock's breathing has picked up, but not from arousal. No, he can recognise the early stages of hyperventilation because he's getting overwhelmed fast. He wants nothing more than to be with John tonight, to feel like this is where he belongs, to feel that connection again of which he's been dispossessed ever since John got sick. He wants –– _wants to want_ — sex, but they should have eased into it slower. He should have told John he needs less before he can want more.

He can't think straight, nor can he pull in a reassuringly deep breath. John wants this, wants _him_ , so how could he have forgot how it all works? This has never been a problem, not really, because he loves having sex with John.

"You okay?" John asks quietly.

Sherlock realises John's hand has halted, retreated out of his pants and is now resting on Sherlock's hip. He feels trapped, needs to rid himself of unwanted touches, needs _air_ , so he pushes John's hand away and scrambles to the edge of the bed. Planting his feet on the carpet, he feels deflated, disappointed. Numb. He buries his face in his hands, still breathing hard.

"Sherlock?"

He should flee, grab his violin, calm himself down. This doesn't concern John; obviously, it's all Sherlock's fault. It's always his fault. He doesn't understand himself, can't name the storms of emotions tearing through his Mind Palace, even though he's spent his life trying to bolt the windows and doors from such things. He's never had the words for them, can't even begin to organise them without the help of some therapist. John has just told him how he needs Sherlock to be the sensible one right now, to maintain his normal state, which is nothing deserving praise, but at least it's what they're both used to. What passes for normalcy in Sherlock's brain is not calm or stable or _normal_ in any sense of the word. There have been only a few times in his life when he's feared this deeply that his control over his life is slipping because he doesn't understand what's wrong.

He has everything to lose, and nothing to lose. What would Dr Pichler advise him to do right now? What would John do if their roles were reversed?

John has crawled across the expanse to sit by him at the edge of the bed. "Can I––" he starts, then swallows, obviously planning to rephrase. "Is it alright if I…"

Sherlock hates that John understands that he should ask whether it's alright to touch, to seek closeness, or whether Sherlock is too on edge, too close to a panic attack or — God forbid — a meltdown to tolerate it. He hates that John knows that about him. Shame should chase him out of the room but, instead of wanting to leave, to hide, his first impulse now is to beg John to fix it, to defuse such thoughts. John's arm hovers behind him and Sherlock leans back slightly. John wraps it around his waist, tugs him closer. The touch is grounding now that it doesn't come with performance anxiety over sex. Sherlock lets his head loll against John's shoulder, allows himself to be rearranged into as close an approximation of a hug as they can manage sitting side by side.

"What's got into you lately?" John asks. There is no judgement in the question, just concern.

"You think something must be wrong with me if I don't want sex whenever having it occurs to you?" Sherlock complains into his shoulder.

John smells faintly is soap and sweat and worn cotton washed with the hypoallergenic detergent. "Not what I meant. I don't mind if you're not in the mood, but it's been so many days after I got sick that I thought you'd be up for it."

"You're supposed to avoid exertion and rest."

"I wouldn't have suggested if I wasn't up to it. Up for at least a lazy hand job, I mean. I could tell you're worried, but you don't have to be that now. I'm fine. "

"It's not that."

"What's going on, then?"

"I don't know," Sherlock complains. "I can't work it out."

"Does that mean you've tried? I mean, is this something that's been going on before this weekend?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Have you talked to Pichler about it?"

"I'm talking to _you_ about it, _now_ ," Sherlock complains indignantly and wraps his arms tighter around John's shoulders. He's surprised himself by how good the physical proximity feels like right now; when he's upset it all tends to be just too much.

"Alright, yeah, good," John hurries to soften. "I'm glad. I guess I wasn't wrong then, thinking you've been a bit short-fused lately. And you sleep and eat even less than you used to. And I haven't seen you really excited about anything lately or doing your projects at home as much."

"And?"

"I actually meant to ask you this weekend, if you still seemed a bit down, if you'd had a word about it with Pichler."

If John has spotted all this, why hasn't he done something to fix it? Why does John want to outsource it all to a stranger? Is it because he can't? What chance has Sherlock got, then, at making things better for himself? _Normal people don't run off to complain to some therapist every time they've got a wobble, do they?_ "Why would I talk to her when I don't know what's wrong!"

"You don't get as cross with her as you do with me when I try to get you to talk about stuff. It's obvious you trust her. It's kind of her job to help you work stuff out."

"I trust _you_!" Sherlock snaps. "She's not my husband."

"No, but she's a psychiatrist which means that she's been trained to put two and two together when her clients can't see the connections themselves."

"So, you don't want to listen to me. You just want me to go see her."

John extricates from their embrace and picks up his hand, slipping fingers between Sherlock's. "I always want to listen to you. I just don't know how useful I can be."

"Because I'm such a _special_ and _demanding_ case?"

John's expression sobers. "No. Are we back to this again? I'm listening because you're important to me. I'm not some saint with a charity project; I'm with you because I want to be. I love you because you're you instead of sitting around hoping you'd be different or wishing you didn't need a therapist. I needed one, too. Haven't we gone through all this?"

 _Great_ , Sherlock curses to himself. Now he has a new thing he's botched to add to the list: failing to internalise what John wants him to believe.

"You say stuff like that whenever there's something a bit not good going on with you," John says, "retreat to some version of things where everything's your fault and you can't manage. Then you just… let things slide."

"I've not let things slide! I've done everything in my power to arrange things during your convalescence," Sherlock protest.

"I mean, let things slide when it comes to other people being there for _you_. You push everyone away because you hate to ask for help."

John chews the inside of his cheek — a nervous tell, and then grimaces. Maybe the gesture hurts his tonsil removal scars.

"I'm not done talking but come on. Let's get back to bed," John prompts, perching a palm on Sherlock's shoulder briefly before lying down.

Sherlock drags himself back under the covers and accepts an invitation to lie on his back with John's arm under his neck.

"Can you tell me as much as you have worked out about what's going on with you? Can you at least say something _is_ wrong in a way that needs addressing?"

Sherlock is incredulous. "You want me to admit things are not great? Gladly." When are they ever — except on rare occasions when he manages to convince himself he doesn't fail at things on a regular basis, which others manage effortlessly?

"That's good," John tells him, pulling the duvet and the top sheet up. "It's been a while since you've seen Pichler, isn't it? I know you've been busy, and this, whatever it is, has come on pretty recently. You can't deny that she's been really useful."

"I've seen her once this year. As you said, I've been busy. The new unit is up and running, and there's nothing new going on between us or at King's. There's no reason there should be a problem."

"Those are all good points to raise."

Sherlock sighs. He doesn't want John to play therapist — he just wants his husband. "Can we just…"

"Can we just what?"

"Can we just be like this?" Sherlock turns to face him, buries his face in John's chest.

"Absolutely."

His hope that John's presence would keep the nightmares away turns out to be in vain.


	9. What's Past Is Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [nowwheresmynut has created some amazing artwork](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/nowwheresmynut/638748682459693056) for this story!
> 
> The name of this chapter comes from _The Tempest_.

  
Doctor Pichler is trying to seek eye contact with him. "Sherlock? What would you like to talk about today?"

He puts away the decorative pillow he'd picked up. The usual nervousness and sense of being put on the spot which has always characterised his visits to the therapist has fused with a pervasive blandness that confounds him. He doesn't feel motivated to engage with her — or anyone. _What use is this, being here?_ "I don't know."

"In that case, would you permit me to make an observation?"

"You've not sought permission before, and I suspect you're just asking for it now to be polite. It's tedious." _You're tedious_. _And wasting my time_.

"Your mood is low," she says simply, "and perhaps it's been that way for some time, now?"

He tilts his head a bit, regards her with dismissal, and only barely keeps himself from crossing his arms defensively. "If that's the case, then why would you have waited to address it? Isn't that what I pay you for, to fix things, to fix me?"

"This is the first session you've booked in some time. I cannot show up at your doorstep and fireman-carry you here, now can I?" she asks amicably, with a touch of playfulness in her tone. "You reached out to me recently via email but did not respond to my reply."

"That is because I shouldn't have approached you. It was unnecessary."

"Yet you are here today."

"You assume those two events are connected, and you're unsurprised at my visit because of that false deduction."

"I did consider getting in touch to ask how you were doing, but I reasoned that it was best to wait and see if what I suspected was going on was just a blip — or what I have been expecting."

"What does that mean?" He doesn't like being predictable. It sounds average and trite. "What do you mean, ' _expected_ '? It's been a good year for me professionally, and my marriage is fine."

"It has been both a good year and a difficult one in terms of workload and new challenges. It's not uncommon to feel a sense of emptiness during a transition from being very busy and new to things calming down and settling into routines. There is also the fact that these past two years can be characterised by cataclysmic shifts in your thinking."

"How so?"

"You have been reshaping your identity in relation to your parents, challenging long-standing notions of your ability as a leader in a professional setting and in negotiating many kinds of social situations. You've willingly allowed a person — your PA — into your life to assist you with things you sought to hide and dismiss before. Those challenges put a strain on your marriage, which you have negotiated thoughtfully and meticulously. Anyone would be exhausted."

"I'm not exhausted. It just all feels so… those things don't quite feel like significant achievements in hindsight. All it feels like is as though I've opened a door, expecting the finishing line, but all I see is an endless marathon of more challenges."

"Is that unique, do you think? Do you believe others have a state to reach at which they can just rest on their laurels, consider their careers and marriages as having reached a permanent goal?"

"Of course not!" he snaps. "It's just that… for me, it's always going to be more work, more of a challenge than for most people. I'll always have a longer way to go to achieve anything. And I'll always have to compare myself to other people in that regard."

"Who compels you to do that, to make those comparisons?"

"It's _obvious_!" Does even a week go by without John either deliberately or inadvertently demonstrating to him how inferior his relationship and communication skills are? "And even if I stopped comparing, others would still see those differences."

"When we met, your way of thinking was very pessimistic in terms of dealing with others, your opinion of yourself low in many regards despite your achievements."

"My achievements in the very limited things at which I excel at."

"Would some individuals still be impressed and even envious of such feats, do you think?"

"While being able to manage things I cannot? _Normal things_. Why would anyone envy a medical science one-trick pony who cannot even manage the daily minutiae of a romantic relationship?"

The psychiatrist is frowning. "You described the last year with John as uneventful in terms of relationship trouble."

"Uneventful in this context, in _my_ context, means a steady slog of failing upwards at best."

"Would John describe it similarly?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't ask. It's not my fault, who or what he chooses."

"Let's take a moment to look a little closer at that statement. You see it as John's fault, as his failing, that he has chosen you as a partner? That things in which your relationship performance is not satisfactory should be seen as his punishment for a poor choice of husband? Does that not absolve you of any responsibility to put in an effort to improve and maintain a good relationship?"

"Of course I try to do that! It's all I do, try to manage, and either he doesn't see it or the things I… or the things I do which require extra effort I don't want his praise for because it sounds so condescending."

"It's easy to see everything in a dire light when other things drag one's mood down. There are so many things you should be proud of this year, things for which anyone would deserve genuine commendation."

"Do you think it's helpful, infecting your patients with a sunny sort of naïve optimism which will make them try things they shouldn't, and fall flat on their faces? Is that what they teach you in whatever back alley course you took to be a so-called therapist?"

He knows he's crossed the line, but he's too tired to keep his temper in check.

"You have not fallen flat on your face, Sherlock. You have achieved a great many things you didn't believe possible before."

"With the intensive and involved help of John, a PA who compensates for my many weaknesses, and a _therapist_." He spits out the last word as though having just sipped from a poisoned chalice.

Joanna Pichler — seemingly and annoyingly unaffected by his ire — shifts in her seat. "If the last year could be described in only a few words, might those words still be hope and doubt rather than failure? Instead of leaning on the morbidly reassuring notion that you are hopeless at certain things so should spare yourself from even trying them, you have exposed yourself to those challenges bravely. You have allowed a hope that you might find a more balanced partnership with John, and a more mutually respectful relationship with your mother. Hope and doubt are frightening because they expose us to others, leave us vulnerable. They cause us anxiety and as such, they are taxing emotions. This is why I would have been surprised if you hadn't, at some point, felt the weight of all the emotional labour you've been doing."

Sherlock decides he likes the term _emotional labour_. That is certainly what it feels like to second-guess oneself constantly, to feel that crushing sense of inadequacy yet feel compelled not to give up.

"Tell me: are things in your life better or worse after you have sought to change them?" Pichler asks.

"The situation with my mother is… tentatively improved. Edgar has proven himself useful. John is… I find he seeks my support more these days instead of just acting like a long-suffering minder. I like that. My employment arrangement has proven fruitful and spares me from a lot of very boring run-of-the-mill back surgery. Things are better. So why am I not reaping the benefits? Why can't I get past what's in my head right now to focus on John's recovery?"

"You will — this much I can promise — but you have to allow yourself time to recuperate and to accept that you need time and some support yourself to make this shift. We need to continue to work on how hard you drive yourself past a reasonable point, and how you expect perfection from yourself and perceive anything less as failure. That demand of expectation does not allow for very human fluctuations of performance level, or the occasional stumble when one's emotional reserves have been stretched thin for a long time. Perfectionism doesn't prepare you for slowing down. Changing things about yourself and your life is not a straight line of successes — it's three steps forward, then perhaps one step back. New skills must be tested, and it's important to learn how to deal with difficulties and failures, too."

"Haven't I had enough experience of failing to be very good at it?"

"You've allowed yourself to hope that you might cope better than you expect with interpersonal relationships. The unavoidable, occasional retreats to old, less effective coping mechanisms and the small falls we all take with other people need not discourage you from believing that you have improved a lot. I know setbacks are discouraging, but dwelling on them is not going to help, nor should you use them as an excuse to fall back on _very_ destructive coping mechanisms."

It sounds like a warning, and Sherlock can sense it's a prelude to something she wants to discuss.

She clears her throat, sips water from a bottle on her desk. "That email you sent me… Knowing your medical history, I need to ask: is there any chance your deteriorated mood has resulted in or was brought on by a relapse into substance use?"

"No. I… no." He curses his hesitation; she always picks up on such things.

"Sherlock?"

He doesn't want to admit he's been tempted. That was one test he _didn't_ fail, but having taken it feels mortifying to admit out loud. What use would she or John have for the information? _I didn't use. That's what matters_. Isn't that exactly the point she's trying to make — that doubts and moments of weakness are normal, and all that matters is how one deals with them? That the outcome is what he should focus on? _There is no use for her to know about what I did; she'll just over-analyse it or Lord forbid, insist on some additional therapeutic measures._

"I have not used, nor do I intend to do so."

"Have you spoken with John about how you have felt lately?"

"Not extensively. He is recovering from surgery, as I explained on the phone. He shouldn't be burdened needlessly with other people's problems."

Pichler flips back about a dozen pages in her notebook. "We once discussed the time you spent in a halo vest, during which you and John went through a difficult time. Something you said then stayed with me and I wrote it down: _'I was encouraged by a colleague to talk to John, but I didn't. It led to misunderstandings and it made things seem a lot worse between us than they were'_."

"John wasn't in the right mental state to discuss things at that time, either."

"Perhaps so, but is there a lesson there that could be employed now? Would it impede John's recovery if you told him you are experiencing a period of depression?"

The word hits like a slap in the face, makes him physically recoil. "This isn't… that. I did admit to him that things are not normal. That's… I don't think––" he trails out, then worries his lip with a huff.

"It's up to you what words you use, but in my opinion, that diagnosis could well be warranted. It's not a new entity in your life, Sherlock, and there just might be a logical explanation for mood fluctuations right now. It's situational, one might say. You've run out of road, so to speak, after having to focus hard on navigating its twists and turns for some time. You've arrived at a beach you looked forward to, but it's hard to adjust to a period of relaxation and regrouping. In such a vacuum of intellectual things for your mind to occupy itself, emotions left unaddressed can come to the surface."

She makes it sound less irrational. Less pathetic. Less self-centred. More logical.

"How do you think John would react if you explained more to him about this?" she asks.

"He'd be worried and fuss. Like my mother. I detest it."

"Does John's fussing have the same qualities as your mother's?"

"No, not exactly."

"If you had to describe John's response in other words, what would those be?"

"I don't understand."

"Could John's responses be born out of… protectiveness? Worry?"

"My mother is _over_ protective and worries needlessly."

"Does that also describe John?"

"Not so much anymore. His trust in my abilities to manage seems to have increased. He even apologised for being so sceptical about the GOSH project."

"How did that make you feel?"

 _Always with the damned descriptions._ "Triumphant?" he suggests. "I wasn't angry at him, not at that point. It felt… good."

"Do you think John will feel that protectiveness and worry only if you tell him more about what's going on with you?"

 _Touché._ John always picks up on his mood and has clearly been trying to engage with him about it, to ask him about his day, to cheer him up in the past few days after their failed attempt at sex even though it's Sherlock who should be keeping him in good spirits. John _is_ worried, and he'll be more worried if Sherlock closes himself up, withdraws from him. He already has, and he knows it's a bit not good. "What if he'll be angry and accuse that I'm being self-centred?"

"You don't often approach him with such matters, do you?"

"No."

"So, it is very likely he will take you seriously instead of thinking this is an attempt to gain attention."

"But it _is_ an attempt to gain his attention."

"And as such, very warranted and not selfish at all, because your well-being affects both of you and he cares a great deal about you."

"I've been told I take up too much of people's time and energy with my problems."

 _Even just by existing_.

Doctor Pichler puts away her pen and notebook. Sherlock has noticed before that she does that whenever she thinks he's said something particularly important or worrying.

"Who has told you this, Sherlock?"

"Take a bloody guess," he snaps. "I don't like it when you make me say obvious things for some obscure pseudo-therapeutic purpose. It doesn't work."

"Is there a reason why you might not be _wanting_ to say it right now?"

"Maybe I think _she_ takes up too much of _my_ time and energy."

"It can be very frustrating and frightening to have a child with ASD, and every parent without a doubt sometimes ends up saying things they later regret and which they realise they shouldn't have. We all get too emotional sometimes to remain rational and composed. But––"

He snorts. "My mother didn't need to get _emotional_ to tell me what a burden I was on the entire family. I can assure you she did it quite calmly. And frequently."

Her smile is tight, pinched. "You didn't let me finish. What I was about to add after that disclaimer is that in the case of your mother, some statements which she has made that have struck hard and deep with you have not been manifestations of constructive and nurturing parenting. And the difficult thing is that a child cannot tell those harmful statements and acts apart from good, accurate and wise things. A child soaks up everything, accepts their parents' reality as their own until a process begins of independence and separation. When that process happens in within their life stories varies greatly. Some never embark on such a journey and remain trapped within the emotional framework of the harm done. Those individuals do not rise above that damage done like you have. Like you are in the process of doing. Many things in your complex relationship with your mother have carried over to your relationship with John. An important one to make a note of is the idea that you have no right to burden others with your needs because your very existence is already so taxing for them. This is wrong, Sherlock. Everyone has the right to be heard, to have their feelings acknowledged and understood and respected."

Sherlock swallows. "John will be worried if I tell him things but… perhaps he'll appreciate being kept updated?"

Doctor Pichler's smile widens. "I very much agree. I know it's difficult to just take my word for it, but I believe very strongly that John would feel honoured to be your trusted person for sharing your feelings. I bet he has noticed how difficult it is for you to approach him with such things."

Sherlock doesn't reply. This all sounds… acceptable, but he doubts it'll feel any easier to open his mouth, to choose the right moment. What words could he even use to start such a conversation?

It appears Doctor Pichler has noticed how discouraged he is. "Would you like the three of us to discuss this together? We could do a video conference call if you wish; I know recovery from an acute tonsillectomy is no picnic, and I doubt he'll want to make the trip here."

"I don't know. I might… try to talk to him. On my own. Maybe."

"That's very good. You won't regret it."

___________

Sherlock makes no plans for any important conversations that night — a therapy session is plenty enough soul searching for one day. He settles on the sofa with John, feeling so drained that he manages to suffer through two episodes of some reality show in which people create and then present baked goods to professionals in the field. He has no idea why John — or many other employees at King's — seem to enjoy this program so much. Watching other people deal with food is not something Sherlock thinks should be allowed to waste prime time hours.

He ends up retreating to bed before John and falling asleep. If he knew that the emotional labour of a therapy session could break through his insomnia, he would have gone to see Joanna Pichler earlier. Or perhaps he wouldn't have. Having to drag himself through the crushed glass in his psyche is a heavy price to pay for a few hours' of slumber.

He wakes with John's fingers coiled right around his neck. Struggling to breathe, he flails with his arms, his fingers clawing through thin air as he tries to escape from the grip.

Then, he awakes again, his arm smarting and his head throbbing, trapped between the bed and the bedside cabinet. He blinks in the dark, momentarily disoriented until he realises a familiar voice is calling out his name from above.

John's hand reaches down, helps him to a sitting position. John then turns on the lamp on his bedside cabinet. Sherlock's fingers trail up to the bright, cutting pain on his temple, and when he looks at his hand, there's a drop of crimson there. Blinking, he looks up at John who's sitting up in bed.

"You fell off and hit your head," John says, scrambling off the bed. "I'll get some tissues and a plaster and a bit of disinfectant. I don't think you'll need stitches."

John's tone is endeared — perhaps even a bit amused. The contrast to the version of him which Sherlock had just escaped from in his dreamscape is staggering. Feeling hag ridden and confused, he climbs to his feet and sits on the edge of the bed, fingertips tingling still from the adrenaline.

Had it been just a dream, it would have been alarming. A memory is what it really is — one he'd pushed away, ruled as inconsequential and logical and understandable and unimportant. John hadn't been himself in that hotel room in Islamabad when he'd woken up suddenly without recognising where he was and who Sherlock was, and it had only happened once. Sherlock has never dreamt of this, at least he can't recall such a nightmare. _Why now?_

John appears in the doorway, a dark form back-lit by the warm yellow light from the corridor. He's carrying what he'd promised from the bathroom cabinet.

"Must've been quite the adventure," John jokes as he cleans the minor wound created by Sherlock's head hitting the sharp corner of the bedside cabinet. "Who were you trying to wrestle besides the duvet?"

"No one," is Sherlock's quiet answer.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and chapter 10 will reference several important past events, so let's have some useful reminders.
> 
> The incident in Islamabad is detailed in [chapter three of _Take Heart_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760575/chapters/29294889#workskin).
> 
> Sherlock's big decision to accept a position as the director of a research unit at Great Ormond Street Hospital and to hire Edgar is detailed in [_Connecting Sutures_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226440). John retracts his scepticism over Sherlock's abilities to manage professionally in [chapter 16](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226440/chapters/63996061) of that story.
> 
> No other story demonstrates better the destructive and ill-informed methods of Violet Holmes in raising his son than [By A Thousand Cuts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255990) (aka the family Christmas from hell).
> 
> The story of Sherlock and John's African honeymoon, during which John caught Dengue fever and nearly succumbed to kidney failure is told in [Where The Streets Have No Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16672432).
> 
> Finally, there was a particularly difficult period in Sherlock's early adult life which is narrated in [Differential Diagnosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838334), particularly from [chapter 15](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838334/chapters/59339185) onwards.


	10. Cornered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It delights me greatly how fond so many readers are of Dr Pichler. If anyone was to be Sherlock's therapist, they had to be clever enough not just to keep up with his intellectuality but to be one step ahead of him, able to challenge his thinking. It's quite the challenge, I tell you, trying to outwit Dr Holmes' defence mechanisms…
> 
> TW: this chapter contains discussions about abusive behaviour in relationships.

  
  
"Are you alright?" Edgar asks Sherlock in the Uber they're sharing — Edgar to get home, Sherlock to get to his next appointment with Dr Pichler two days later.

"Yes," Sherlock replies curtly.

Edgar knows that he attends therapy because the PA needs to be aware of everything that goes into Sherlock's calendar. It's a matter of necessity, just like disclosing his ASD had been. Edgar has always been the very soul of respect and discretion, so his awareness grates on Sherlock's confidence less than other people knowing. He's glad that John has also had a therapist — mainly because it has greatly helped John and benefited their relationship, but also because it means that needing therapy per se is not just something that happens to Sherlock in their household.

"It's just that…" Edgar starts, switching off his tablet and sliding it into his messenger bag Clearly, he feels very uneasy about voicing these worries. "…I've had to remind you of many things in the past few weeks. You're not normally this…"

Sherlock unbuttons his woollen coat so he can fish a cloth out of his breast pocket to clean his glasses. "Scatter-brained? Distracted?"

Edgar pinches his lips together. "Yes, quite."

"You're not wrong, and I am thankful how you have picked up the slack, but I don't wish to discuss this further."

"Apologies," Edgar curtly responds. "I did not mean to overstep."

"You haven't. What you said was astute."

Truth be told, he feels like a rip tide has seized him. His calendar is rather full this week, and even with Edgar's help he feels absent-minded and wholly unmotivated even by the things he'd normally enjoy. He'd even found himself hoping that this morning's delicate posterior fossa operation was already done when he was barely halfway through resecting the tumour. The small talk in the OR is always subdued when he's operating; the staff know that inane chatter distracts him, but he had found even the pertinent conversation now grates on his nerves. His anxiety has built up to levels where it makes him feel insecure and unsure not just at home but also at work — wrong-footed about even the simplest professional decisions he has to make. It gnaws at the pit of his stomach, directionless and vast like the ocean, impossible to grip by the proverbial lapels and banish with the determination that usually allows himself to push through difficulties.

Once in the psychiatrist's waiting room, he lapses into deep thought. He had wanted to believe he could reason himself out of this without her help, but he cannot even decipher how the balance he has worked for, and now achieved, gives him no sense of equilibrium.

Finally, he's shaken out of his reverie by his name being called. Judging by Doctor Pichler's expression, she has already sought to get his attention several times before it has registered that it's his turn.

Feeling profoundly out of himself, Sherlock trails behind her into the appointment room. By the time he slumps down onto the sofa and starts hyperventilating, he feels as though he's properly left himself behind and is watching the scene from afar in bewilderment and alarm. When he'd felt most embarrassed as a child, most put on the spot, most ashamed of who he was, he had imagined stepping out of the scene like a character crawling out of a painting, feeling nothing but the vague interest of a spectator looking at a tableau they couldn't quite decode. A tableau of his emotions. The emotions of others. _Pointless. Difficult._

The last time he'd felt like this was when he'd found himself being comforted — _hugged_ — by his boss after word-vomiting out the secret that things between him and John weren't alright at home after Afghanistan. He'd wanted someone to know, someone to listen, someone to _hear_ him, but when they did, he was left with a sense of shame and failure so profound and overwhelming that he couldn't endure it. So he left himself behind.

 _'Always making such a fuss about yourself. Can't you see other people have needs, too?'_ Violet Holmes tuts in his head.

John has needs right now. _And while those needs are unmet, making John more tired and grumpier and more withdrawn than he usually is, I am wasting time here, indulging the whims of my unruly psyche, being useless and weak and––_

He flinches when a hand shifts into his visual field offering a glass of water, which he receives with shaking hands.

"Small sips, and take a breath in between," she coaxes. "Everything is alright."

Something in him won't accept that statement as reality, even if he trusts her to deliver the truth. He feels as though he's been holding his breath — holding _himself_ in — for weeks now, and whatever is about to break out cannot be stuffed back in. He's gasping for air, curling fingers into the seat of the sofa beside his thighs with his right hand as he pushes the now empty glass back into the therapist's hands. He's both crying and not able to do so and it's mortifying: soundless, tearless, convulsing sobs twist and stiffen the muscles bracketing his spine and make him gasp even harder for oxygen.

"You're having a panic attack caused by anxiety. You _know_ this, Sherlock, and you can control it." She instructs him to hold his breath, then release it, keeps repeating it many times until he can begin to attempt to comply.

The tip of his tongue is sour with venomous things he wants to say to dispel the embarrassment, to lash back at the universe that seeks to diminish him like this, but words elude him as his chest heaves still to catch his breath.

He feels as if those familiar fingers are around his neck again.

 _It wasn't John. John is fine_ , he tells himself. _We're fine_.

Why is he so paralysed then, so brittle and mute when he goes home to John? He hasn't wanted to admit it, but some of his anxiety he can no longer distinguish from fear. And he has no reason to fear anything in his own home, not even when he argues with John. Why has he begun to feel like he's on high alert, ready to react to John's every word and gesture?

Why does his mind insist on returning to those days after Afghanistan like this?

The therapist starts asks him questions he can answer with just a nod or a shake of his head. No, nothing significant has happened at home. No, there hasn't been anything particularly challenging going on at work. No, he's not argued with John. Having to analyse these things seems to defog some of Sherlock's thinking, and he manages to square his shoulders and look directly at Doctor Pichler.

She catches him glancing at his watch. "We have as much time as you need. As it happens, you are my last appointment of the day."

That doesn't help. _I'm inconveniencing her, now_.

"I assure you that speaking with you is much better and more rewarding a use of my time than continuing to list my dead godmother's book collection on Ebay," she tells him.

She stands up and goes to sprinkle some flaky food into the fish tank. "Have you conversed with John about what we discussed the last time?"

"No," he manages. His nose is stuffy and his tone disgustingly nasal.

"That means your mood issues likely prevail, and I suspect that you've had to spend much of your depleted mental reserves in concealing things from him. Am I right?"

"I need to focus on John. He's the one on sick leave," Sherlock argues thinly, balls up the tissue he'd grabbed from the cardboard box on the side table beside the sofa and sticks it in his jacket pocket.

"We must put our own oxygen mask on first, Sherlock. Selflessness is not commendable when it comes at too high an expense."

She replaces the glass cover on the fish tank and returns to her usual chair. "Do you remember our conversations about the time John was recovering from his battlefield injury? I believe you were in a halo vest during the period when he began seeing a therapist himself? You didn't begrudge his timing for looking after his mental well-being, did you, though you were under the weather, too?"

"He was the one whose needs were the most important then, as they are now. _My_ timing was off then, too, in getting injured. And _yes_ , I understand it was an accident and accidents cannot be _scheduled_. It was concretely, _physically_ difficult for me to manage without help so he couldn't fail to notice that. Now, what's been going on… I'm here so that I can sort it out. Get it over with."

"Do you mean that the issues you're having now are easier to conceal from John because they are not somatic?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel a pressure to, I quote, _'sort yourself out_ ' quickly so that you can focus on John?"

"Why must you reiterate the obvious? That's what I just said!"

"Why is there a hierarchy of whose needs are more important?"

"What do you mean, ' _why_ '? It's _obvious_!"

"Because a physical infirmity is a legitimate reason to need help and support, and a psychological one is not? Was your cervical fracture not deserving of the help you needed to recover from it?"

"John has accused me many times of being self-centred, or not noticing or addressing his needs."

"In your current state, are you able to do those things — to be attentive, to support him in his recovery?"

"No," he admits. _I know this painfully well; why does she feel the need to remind me?_ "And that's why I'm here!"

"Would you say that being less able to deduce his needs makes you feel worse when you are already having a difficult time? Makes you blame yourself, perpetuating your low sense of self-worth when it comes to relationships? Am I getting warmer?"

Sherlock feels nauseous, his stomach in knots and his head throbbing from crying. His thinking sounds so… exaggerated when she describes it in such terms, but her description is accurate.

"Then, pray tell, how should John punish you for these discretions?"

His eyes snap up to him. He frowns, tries to decide whether she's making fun of him. "Excuse me?"

"How would you punish John if your roles were reversed?" Her tone is oddly neutral, her expression calm and curious.

 _What the hell is she playing at?_ "Of course I wouldn't think he needs punishing! After Afghanistan, he was… he couldn't be expected to understand what it was like for me in the halo vest."

"Was that his thinking, too? He sought expert help, didn't he, because he was worried he was unable to support his husband, because he wanted to repair the rift in your relationship?"

"He began seeing Doctor Hooper because I failed to help him."

"Sherlock…" there is concern in the therapist's eyes, "it wasn't your failure which prompted John to seek therapy. He did so partly because he recognised that _your_ needs were not being met. PTSD is something that tends to require professional help. You are not the only person in your relationship who sometimes needs support to do their best to be a good partner; John has struggled with that, too."

"Because of what I'm like. Because of what I can't do."

"No, Sherlock. Those things have played a part, yes, but John has certain personality traits, complexities in his personal and family history and his identity which could cause complications in any relationship he's in. He did a lot of work with Doctor Hooper on those things, and he gave her permission to summarise their work to me. John later on gave me permission to disclose details I am aware of if they could help you. It shows great trust, awareness in his own challenges, and demonstrates motivation in wanting to learn better relationship skills. Problems in your marriage are not solely caused by you, Sherlock. A relationship takes two, and you hold John in very high regard — unrealistically high regard, I might add — when it comes to being a good spouse."

"I doubt it. He is a very good husband and I will spend the rest of my life attempting — and failing miserably — to achieve what he manages effortlessly."

"I hesitate to bring this up now that you are very upset, but… have you ever considered that some of his behaviour after Afghanistan — regardless of whether it was understandable after the trauma he experienced or a symptom of his PTSD — might well qualify as abusive? We have never quite discussed this, and I don't know if it's very relevant right now, but––"

The recollection of that nightmare of John's flashback in Islamabad tries to intrude, and Sherlock firmly pushes it away. "No," he protests firmly. "It was just… I was just too––" he shakes his head. She is pushing towards something that makes him want to clam up and flee.

"Through conversations with you and your mother, it has become apparent to me that, during your childhood, your emotional needs were frequently neglected. You were told that they were signals that you were attention-seeking, and much blame was placed for you for emotional distress your parents experienced that was not your fault. Years in such an environment can blind a person to when they are being mistreated. We have worked hard together to help you set boundaries, to redefine how others are allowed to treat you. Denying one's needs because they are assumed to be unimportant is not very good self-care, and I think it's important for us to examine why you would willingly project such an ethos onto your interactions with John."

"John is _not_ abusive!" The defensiveness that floods in surprising Sherlock with its intensity. He no longer feels sad — he can now recognise he's angry.

"Many people can behave abusively in certain situations and under duress. It doesn't mean that the word should be used to summarise their entire personality. There is a fine but distinct difference between someone hesitating to share things with a partner because they have a low sense of self-worth and worry about their feelings being dismissed, and someone _fearing_ the consequences of sharing things with their partner. I can promise you that nothing in your and John's current relationship is making me think there are worrying things happening. Nothing that I have learned about your current marriage makes me think he's being abusive towards you."

"I can hear the _but_."

She nods. "The way you've been feeling about work even before John's surgery is one thing — which I think will pass and can be explained by change process fatigue and a shift in your workload. It's another thing why John's current situation seems to be producing intense emotional responses that confuse you, and a reluctance to discuss them with him."

"What intense responses?"

"You don't usually get this emotional when we discuss John. Do you think your panic attack was connected to work, or to what's happening at home?"

"Home," he admits. "I feel… better at work. Uninterested and frustrated and bored, but better."

She looks impressed. "That was very well analysed, Sherlock."

He rolls his eyes, feeling like a child being praised for something ridiculously easy. "Nothing new has happened at home save for John's surgery, and he's recovering well. I don't understand why I keep having nightmares of things that happened after Afghanistan." It's a relief to tell her; she is likely the only person who might be able to deliver some answer.

"There are things which have happened in the past which may be affecting how safe you feel going to him with your problems. Things we haven't addressed or defused. You were not receiving therapy yet when John underwent his own process after being invalided home. Having dreams of that time period might be evidence that your current situation is a delayed reaction to that difficult time. In our conversations, you have fervently denied that you had any right to burden John with how you were struggling during and after Afghanistan — first when he took on that mission and then in the aftermath as you feared first for his life, then for his mental health and his career and the longevity of your relationship."

Sherlock feels like a prey being circled by a hunter. "I'm _fine_ , and John is just recovering from surgery." He angrily swipes a fresh tear off the corner of his eye. _It's all over and done with. It's over, it doesn't affect us anymore._

"Have memories of other past events besides Afghanistan resurfaced?"

"Some dreams have been about the time John caught Dengue fever in Malawi. None of it is logical, because I'm not scared for his life now. Not like I was then. This is just tonsillitis and a tonsillectomy. Nothing life-threatening. There were potential complications, but the risk period for them has passed."

"John's surgery has still put you in a carer's role again, a role you have told me you find extraordinarily difficult. As a child, you were told you were the object of assistance and support and in constant need of them, incapable of providing such things for others. It's logical that a reversal of that belief would be difficult for you to negotiate."

"I'm not opposed to him needing me. In fact, I find that… reassuring. But I cannot know what it is he needs and how I am supposed to deliver it, when he's not telling me things and he's often been in a perpetually irritable, angry mood after the surgery. But he's not behaved the way he did after Afghanistan."

"After Afghanistan, it took some time to repair the damage done to your relationship by John's difficult recovery. Did you even confide in someone about the way he behaved towards you, then? Did you have a support person who told you his behaviour was not acceptable?"

"I didn't disclose any details, no. My supervising colleague at King's knew, I mean he found out––"

"What did he find out, Sherlock?"

"That things weren't… good at home. That John could have returned to work physically but refused to do so. That I was… under some pressure. He came to visit, talked to John. After that, I believe John reserved his first appointment with Doctor Hooper."

"How did it feel when he came to visit?"

Sherlock licks his dry lips. _Pichler should buy better-quality tissues that don't feel like sandpaper._ "I was disappointed that I was unable to help John deal with those problems, that he was so disappointed in me that he behaved that way. But I felt relieved. I wanted someone to see what was going on, because I couldn't fix it."

"I hear a punitive aspect in your thinking again, Sherlock. Do you really think that the kind of behaviours John was exhibiting towards you, behaviours he has explicitly stated he deeply regrets and wants to learn how to avoid, were deserved?"

"No. I don't know–– there was another colleague who… picked up on things, I think. The orthopaedist who was overseeing my halo treatment. She seemed to think that John… I corrected her. Lord knows what she suspected."

"It takes a lot of mental energy to hide things from others, doesn't it?"

"I guess."

"It can also become a habit. You didn't share things with your mother because her responses did not make you feel very good about yourself. You were protecting yourself by keeping things to yourself. After Afghanistan, John expressed blame and disappointment towards you during a time when you needed him greatly. Now, as he is under the weather and you need support…"

"It sounds too easy an explanation. It doesn't explain why I'm…" Sherlock doesn't even want to try to describe or address the ridiculous way in which he's behaving. Shame has crept in again: why can't he just keep it together for John's sake?

"Has John's behaviour after his therapy concluded ever made you uneasy to the point of fearing his reactions if you try to talk to him about how you feel?"

"No, it's… I don't understand why it's so difficult."

John does not react badly when Sherlock manages to verbalise his emotions. Well, that… period after Afghanistan notwithstanding. _It's the silence and the withdrawal and the difficulty of talking about such things that poison the well these days, isn't it? And those are all my fault._

"Recognising and expressing emotions is a language you were often told was beyond your learning capacity. You've had a lot of catching up to do as an adult. And you've done well, especially for an individual on the ASD Spectrum."

"John is not abusive. I can talk to him, well, _could_ talk to him, if I was just… if I was more…" _Even thinking about doing it makes me feel tongue-tied and scared and sure that I won't even find the right words because I often don't know what the right words are._

She nods towards the glass on the side table. "Would you like some more water?"

"Yes, please," he answers quietly.

She goes to the sink in the corner, fills half of the glass.

"If it wasn't for the nightmares, I would be sceptical towards the idea of what happened in and after Afghanistan or Malosa having a role in what's going on," he offers. It's easier to say things out loud when her gaze isn't on him, scrutinising and analysing.

"Go on," she prompts, giving him the glass and returning to her seat.

He lets out a ragged breath, swirls the water in the glass. "When we left Bastion, they didn't give me any advice on how to… we weren't advised what to do about… They said John's limp was psychosomatic. It was obvious he was exhibiting symptoms of an acute stress reaction — who wouldn't, after getting ambushed and nearly expiring?"

"Quite natural, yes. Very human."

"He didn't always know who I was. He… the flashbacks were problematic."

"Have you ever seen patients react violently? In a way that was understandable in the context of their mental illness?"

"Yes, of course. Even somatic entities such as brain tumours can cause such personality changes."

"Does such medical knowledge erase the emotional impact of such behaviour on healthcare staff?"

"No, of course not. Violence is violence. It's always unsettling." He remembers a psychiatric patient from his medical school days who he had accidentally angered. The man started throwing furniture around. It was understandable because the man was psychiatrically very ill, but Sherlock had still felt very rattled afterwards.

"Let's extrapolate, then. We've agreed that medical training does not protect from the emotional impact of such behaviour from strangers in a professional setting. What about in a family setting outside of the professional sphere? Would a healthcare professional be unsettled by such an encounter then?"

"Of course, they would be, possibly even worse than––" his eyes go wide as the connection is made.

"John is well on his way to recovering from formally diagnosed, uncontested PTSD, but there were months between his injury in Afghanistan and the start of his therapy during which he must have suffered from an untreated acute stress reaction developing towards an untreated post-traumatic stress disorder. Flashbacks during which he reacted violently to things his mind suspected being a threat were logical — they were symptoms of a psychiatric illness. That means that he did not intend to hurt you when those things happened. What it _doesn't_ mean is that those experiences couldn't have been traumatic for his husband. The way both you and him have described his regret at the turns your relationship took after Afghanistan tells me that much of his behaviour at home was reactive, too. But it doesn't help either of you to deny its impact on you."

"John has not denied it. As you pointed out, he has been very sorry for certain things he said and did. And I believe him."

"I also believe that John has worked hard and that together you have repaired your relationship. He has not denied those things that hurt you — I suspect _you_ have denied them to a large extent. And perhaps the way you were raised has had a role in that."

"What do you expect me to do with all this, then? Be angry at him? Accuse him of things? He's not _like that_ , now."

"How you need to process these things is unclear at this point. Perhaps even just acknowledging them may help. Seeing _why_ some things are difficult for us can often help with overcoming them. If emotions stemming from a time when you had to push them away are interfering with talking to John about your current situation, perhaps being aware of that can put you more at ease, help you believe it's safe to talk to him now."

Sherlock glances at his watch. The appointment has run forty minutes overtime. "I can't go home like this. He'll see me like this, and I… he'll ask things and be angry if I can't answer, and it'll just make things worse."

"Would you permit me to speak with John?"

"And admit my failure?"

It's rare for her to let frustration slip through and settle on her features, but it's evident on her face now. "Sherlock… It's not a failure when you cannot employ skills you were not taught — skills you are only learning the basics of now after recognising that those skills are needed for healthy relationships with others, including a more constructive relationship with your mother. In fact, I suspect John will be very glad and impressed with you if you allow me to do this."

"I don't want him to know that things can get… bad." _I don't want him to know about the drugs, either._ "I don't want anyone to be throwing around words like ' _depression_ '. He can't know. Not this. Not that it once got like this, and worse."

Doctor Pichler frowns. "What do you mean? You've had periods of depression during your relationship with him."

"I haven't used that word. And he doesn't know about…" Sherlock shifts in his seat nervously. "When I was in medical school, things… progressed. John _doesn't know_ ," he emphasises, feeling the anxiety rising with a tinge of urgency.

"This appears to be something you haven't shared with me, either?" Pichler points out. She doesn't sound angry or disappointed, for which Sherlock is relieved. "What doesn't John know?" she asks.

John already knows about his ASD, knows about and has seen his darker periods, but he doesn't know how bad it once got. John would never believe that Sherlock can look after himself if he knew. It would change the way John looks at him if John realised that at least once, he'd been nothing but a mental patient incapable of studying or working or looking after himself. It occurs to Sherlock to wonder if his mother might have told John about what happened back then. _No_ , he decides. _She was ashamed that it happened, mortified that I let myself get into that state._ Violet Holmes has told John plenty of embarrassing things about her son, but this is different. "John has no idea I was once committed to inpatient treatment."

"I don't have to tell him that. What I would tell him, with your permission, is that you are going through a difficult time. I don't have to use the word depression. I promise I will not disclose anything you have explicitly told me you don't want him to know."

"He doesn't know," Sherlock presses ever more urgently, pressing fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms when the anxiety threatens to take over again. "He's not seen how I get when I lose it, when I can't manage without self-medicating, without _using_ , or… at all. I put it all past me, but lately, I've been tempted––"

God, he wants to use right now. He'd sworn that this isn't him anymore. He had _sworn_ that night when he threw out the meth and the cocaine that it would never be him again. But, like his autism, the addiction cannot be uprooted. It's always there, mocking him, circulating in his veins, short-circuiting his neurons out of just futile hope that he might indulge, tripping him up even though it's not fair he should always be stumbling through life trying to keep up with others.

If John knew about these things, he'd never look at Sherlock the same way _._ But, if Doctor Pichler is right, John might just think him equally pathetic if he refuses to discuss his obvious problems now. _Which of the options is worse, really?_ A relapsing addict who's also a certifiable lunatic, or a sorry excuse of a spouse whose emotions are so repressed they explode all over the place just when his husband needs him the most?

If Pichler speaking with John is the only way to keep up a facade of rational decision-making, then it appears to be the only option Sherlock has.

"Whatever," he relents, defeated.

As long as she keeps her promise of confidentiality, it can hardly make things worse, can it, if she speaks with John? Sherlock trusts her, and it would only be a matter of time before there was an argument at home about how things are. An argument during which Sherlock, in his current state of mind, just mind end up admitting to more than he wants John to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident from medical school is detailed in chapter 7 of _[Differential Diagnosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838334/chapters/58230832#workskin)_.
> 
>  _[Scar Tissue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534830)_ is the story of what happened after John was invalided home from Afghanistan and Sherlock ended up in a halo vest because of a cervical fracture. It was the worst period of their marriage, and led to John seeking professional help for PTSD. The impact of that time period is something that Sherlock and John discussed between themselves, but Sherlock has not had much of a professional outsider's perspective of the things that happened in those days and the way John behaved towards him.
> 
> Sherlock confiding in Lestrade and the senior surgeon visiting John and Sherlock happened in _Take Heart_. Dr Laura Arthur, Sherlock's trauma orthopaedist, expresses her concern for what she suspects is a lack of support from John towards Sherlock in _Scar Tissue_.


	11. The Support Network

John uses the poker to push some ashes back towards the grid in the middle of the fireplace, under the burning logs which had taken some coaxing to light. It's a cold, foggy day that feels as though it's seeping in through the floorboards and the cracks in the window frames, smothering the flat in an atmosphere of bleak solitude. John has always enjoyed spending holidays relaxing at home as much as he enjoys travelling with Sherlock, but enough is enough. Besides, this is hardly a holiday. He's doing much better, but he agrees with Collings who he'd spoken to on the phone earlier that an additional week of sick leave is warranted. Two weeks is standard for an elective tonsillectomy — someone who's needed that surgery urgently because of an abscess will need even longer.

He'd been annoyed earlier that he couldn't find the remote for Sherlock's fancy audio system so that he could listen to some radio for company — an indulgence completely out of the question when the man is at home because few things cause such a nails-on-blackboard reaction as commercial radio does. John had ended up placing his laptop on the small desk in the sitting room and listening to some jazz channel chosen at random on Spotify while slowly making his way through the chicken soup he'd ordered from Siam Central, a Thai restaurant a few blocks away. The pain meds must be keeping his appetite in check as a side effect; he hasn't had a proper meal in two weeks now — just scraps of things that are the consistency of baby food, really.

The Pad See Ew with salmon he'd ordered for Sherlock is waiting in the fridge. Thai food is one of Sherlock's favourites besides Japanese — he says he appreciates being able to tell what's on his plate. Mushy stews and things hidden under pie covers are his horror, one Violet Holmes frequently inflicts on her younger son. John has never quite understood why the two of them, Violet in particular, insist on treating cuisine like a battlefield. She's a great, versatile cook, so why would she insist on serving things she must know Sherlock abhors when he visits? John's parents are long gone from the ovarian cancer which took his mother and the alcoholism which broke their family long before his mum got ill, so he can't know for sure how he'd feel about Christmas dinner as an adult son. He is certain he wouldn't enjoy attempts of being raised and schooled at his age. For years, John had believed Violet's behaviour was just a caring, fussy remnant of very involved parenting. After the Christmas when Sherlock could take no more of it, John had begun to understand what that parenting had really been like as a recipient. In fact, had Sherlock broken ties with her altogether, John would have not tried to turn his head. He's glad that they're getting along better, now, but tries to keep in mind that it has required the help of a psychotherapist and a lot of conflict as Sherlock struggled to get his mother to understand that her behaviour was no longer acceptable. And in some ways, it never had been.

He glances at the clock and then checks their shared calendar on his phone — shouldn't Sherlock be home by now? His therapy session ought to have ended fifty minutes ago, and it's hardly rush hour. He tends to walk if it's not raining heavily, and it's just a fifteen-minute stroll, tops, for his walking speed. John had been considering surprising him with not just a meal but a bath ran ready; John knows from experience how one wants to just relax and not think or talk much after a therapy session. And Sherlock has seemed a bit down and tired, lately. He's been eating very little which is a firm indicator for his moods. A few days of neglecting sleep and nutrition is normal, especially if he's in the middle of something interesting, but it's been a least a… month? John tries to think back to when he'd first made a note of his husband being more irritable, restless and moody. It's so hard to tell since Sherlock's head is such an unpredictable weather system at the best of times. Going back to therapy after a long break must mean something, though, and the dead giveaway that something is going on had, of course, been that Sherlock had admitted to as much when John had tried to get things going in bed. It's not easy for Sherlock to flick the switch of his mindset to sex from something else he's engaged in, but he's not been excited or immersed in anything lately, has he? He just sulks in the flat, tries to start reading or watching things, but just ends up wandering around in frustration. He'd acted waspish when John had suggested going back to Pichler; it's so frustrating that after all the benefit they've both had from therapy, Sherlock still seems to decide periodically that he loathes the very concept of needing help so much that he'd rather just… not.

 _Denial. Lashing out at people when they try to help. Making grand statements about how he's such a hopeless case._ John sighs. If only Sherlock understood that the things that he thinks are so difficult aren't exactly easy for other people, either. Relationships and commitment? John had thought them so daunting that he'd ran as far as he could for years and years if someone wanted to build something like that with him. Dealing with all kinds of people at work — staff, patients, administration — all that gives John grey hairs, too. Of course it's more of a challenge for Sherlock, who can't read people very well, who has little sense of what is socially appropriate. As for being in touch with one's own emotions — John can hardly boast grand success at it after Afghanistan, and that's what had nearly broken their marriage, wasn't it? Not something that Sherlock did or said or didn't do or say. He'd never want to belittle the way being autistic has affected and continues to affect Sherlock's life — John suspects he most likely underestimates its impact on a regular basis — but in many ways it makes Sherlock really _good_ at being married. He's loyal and faithful, endlessly devoted, and very thoughtful because he's so damned afraid of messing up his part. And his sensitivity and responsiveness have ruined sex with anybody else for John.

As he watches the flames licking the blackening logs and listens to the hum in the chimney airlock, John is smiling to himself, his mood improved by thinking about his husband. He's been up for most of the day, even put on jeans and a jumper, and needed only one oxycodone tablet today. He's getting back on his feet, which means that he can focus better on Sherlock.

John is just about to reach for his phone on the coffee table to send a message to ask if he should start running the bath, when it flashes to life with an incoming call. The caller ID says _Joanna Pichler_ , and John wonders if Sherlock has forgot something at her office. Maybe she's tried to call him, but he hasn't turned the sound on his mobile back on. Or perhaps it _is_ his mobile he's left behind.

"Hello?" answers John, annoyed at his still slightly raspy voice and the way talking pulls at something in his hard palate.

"Good evening, John," Joanna Pichler's deep, soft mezzosoprano voice responds.

"Evening," he replies.

"How are you doing? I take it the worst is over?" she asks courteously.

"Never thought that eating a few spoonfuls of lukewarm soup would feel like a big win, but here we are. Might go back to work in about a week. Everything alright? Were you trying to reach Sherlock?"

"He's still here at the clinic." She sounds calm, collected. "He's in the appointment room. I stepped into an adjoining space to call you."

"Why?" John coughs a bit to make his voice less raspy, but all it does is cause a twinge of pain to shoot towards his left ear.

"There's something Sherlock needs you to know but finds it difficult to communicate at present."

John shifts the phone to his other ear, alarmed. "Yeah?"

"After or during particularly stressful periods in his life, he is prone to mood deterioration, which interferes with his thinking and ability to communicate."

"Yeah. I… I think I've picked up on some of that lately. But he's usually bounced back on his own after a while. I never know how long to just let him be and when to nudge him to do something about it. It's often been… I don't know… transitional, like you said? Such as before and after Malawi."

"Indeed. He's had a busy year and I don't find it surprising that his reserves are low right now."

"Yeah, lots going on with work and with his Mum, but now things are slowing down. We're okay, though, the two of us, I think?" John hadn't meant it as a question, but that's how it had sounded. It grates a bit, suspecting that there might be a problem, but Sherlock just can't or won't tell him about it. He tries to remind himself that this _is_ Sherlock communicating — that asking for someone else's help in saying these things is a big, positive thing. A step forward in admitting that he needs… something.

"Yes, he agrees that your relationship is well."

"Then it's just that he's a bit… overworked?" John asks. "Or is there something else?"

She takes a moment before speaking, perhaps to decide how to phrase things. "Your convalescence has brought some things back for him; he's been having some nightmares about your time in Africa and your injury in Afghanistan and its aftermath."

"Oh." John's brows knit together. It's logical that him being ill might remind Sherlock of other such instances, but that's all in the past and he's fine, now. There's nothing for Sherlock to worry about. "What kinds of things?"

"John… I'm afraid I do not have the same carte blanche from him to discuss his therapy sessions as I have from you."

"But it's about me, then? It must be about me, since during those times I wasn't well, and he had to… um… pick up the slack?" John curses silently because it's not the right expression.

"Perhaps he'd permit me to say that he feels certain expectations very acutely and intensely when you are ill or injured. And certain things in his past, in his family dynamic, make it extraordinarily difficult for him to acknowledge his own needs."

John chuckles joylessly. "Yeah. He basically thinks everything is always his fault."

"A simplified summary but close to the truth." She sighs.

There's something about that sigh that seems to betray that patient and therapist both are feeling the impact of whatever they have spent nearly two hours talking about.

John has always been impressed by Pichler's patience and willingness to deal with Sherlock as a patient. His husband could drive lesser-minded psychotherapists to lunacy themselves, or at least make them quit. An extraordinarily clever medical professional who can verbally eviscerate anyone must be a nightmare case for anyone but the most highly trained and experienced. _And brave_ , John thinks. He's got the impression that Joanna Pichler even _likes_ Sherlock and if that adds a certain warm tone to how she deals with him, John suspects it does a world of good for Sherlock, who's spent much of his life socially isolated and bullied. She's close to Violet's age, and so damned different in the way she speaks about autism. She's the one John's therapist had referred him to when he'd wanted to talk to an expert about how ASD affects a person's life and their relationships. She'd had some practical advice for John, too. He'd never quite appreciated the vicious circle in Sherlock's life of being told he would always fail at relationships and communication, which leads to him taking every misstep as evidence of that discouraging prophecy. One thing that had really stuck with John that Joanna had told him was: ' _be careful of inadvertently reinforcing his lack of confidence. If you judge him instead of his behaviour, ask him to change who he is, that will be soul-crushing_.'

If only Sherlock understood that they often struggle with the same stuff. _Lord knows I'm pants at talking about my feelings._

"So, you are recovering well?" Pichler asks courteously, perhaps to bring John back into the conversation.

"It's just as hideous as everyone says it is for adults, but I'm managing. Sherlock's been, well, himself. He was great at the beginning, sorted out the acute phase. He just gets so worked up about how he's supposed to help."

"Yes. He is quite harsh on himself when evaluating how well he has succeeded. As I mentioned, he creates standards for himself which even neurotypical individuals would struggle to reach."

"So, um, is he alright? I mean, your session must've ran overtime if he's still there? Did he ask you to call me?"

"I suggested it, and he gave me his permission."

"What should I do? When he comes home, I mean?"

"I would advise against asking him why he didn't or couldn't talk to you about this. He sees his inability to verbalise his emotions as very much connected to many other things he assumes he can easily fail to do in your marriage. His silence is not an indication of mistrust, John — it's just that he has many long-term thinking patterns which complicate his ability to communicate his needs."

"Don't I know it. I guess that's something that comes from home. His Mum was sort of… over-dedicated but very judgmental."

"A poignant description, I must admit."

John thinks it's a charitable description of Violet Holmes at her worst. "Is he… is he okay, really?"

"That is all very relative, John. He is in no danger, remains quite functional but is clearly exhausted, partly by having to dedicate a lot of mental energy to pretend everything is fine."

"So, you think he's depressed?" What was it Pichler had said? _'Mood deterioration_ '? To John, it sounds like an euphemism Sherlock might use.

"What do _you_ think, John?"

"I don't know. It's just… he has these periods, and he's never seemed to need meds or anything like that for them. They just pass. They're not… it's not really a part of his ASD but sometimes dealing with that and people and work and all just gets a bit much, doesn't it?"

"What is going on with him now needs to be monitored. I would like to see him weekly for a while, perhaps even more frequently if that becomes necessary."

"That's up to him, really." John then realises that statement had sounded a tad dismissive. "I mean, if you think it's necessary and you can convince him it's necessary, then of course." He's tempted to ask again if Sherlock is okay, but the psychiatrist is right — _alright_ or _not alright_ is an oversimplification. "If I shouldn't ask why he can't talk to me when he comes home, can I ask you, now, why you think you had to be the one to call me? If he acknowledges these things, why can't he… he's not worried about how I'd react, is he?"

"For Sherlock, admitting certain needs is admitting defeat. It may take time for him to break that association and stop fearing that such things will change your opinion of him."

"But it won't! He didn't choose this; didn't choose the brain he has. I love him," John says and feels a flush of emotion — maybe the waning effects of the oxycodone he took hours ago are still making him overtly emotional. Then again, maybe that's not a bad thing if Sherlock needs some attention. "I would never think worse of him for having a hard time."

"I know he's not had sessions with you for some time, said he was just too busy. Having a new assistant has helped, but maybe he should have been seeing you regularly. Would that have prevented all this?"

"We can't know for sure. I find it quite logical after such a long period of extremely high work stress, emotionally taxing reactions to his mother's behaviour and other recent events that he would need time to readjust. I don't think seeing me on a regular basis would have prevented certain memories from resurfacing around your tonsillectomy."

What that means still mystifies John. "Is there anything I can do? Should I try to talk to him about all that?"

She takes a pause, as if to consider what more to reveal. "Perhaps not. Let him take his time. I would not recommend putting any additional pressure on him to communicate. He and I will be focusing on certain past events in future sessions so that their current impact could be defused."

"I bet he's looking forward to that," John jokes. "Um… I can't come and pick him up since I can't drive with my pain meds."

"I'm sure he'll be fine in a cab, or perhaps getting a bit of fresh air while walking home might be a good idea."

"Should I call his PA? I'm sure Edgar could escort him home."

"Unnecessary. Perhaps you might text me when he arrives home, though?"

That alarms John. _Is she downplaying whatever is going on with Sherlock if she thinks he needs to be monitored like that?_ Yeah, I will. Tell him… just tell him I'm looking forward to seeing him? No, that's… that's not what I want him to know. I just…"

"Perhaps you might tell him — or demonstrate it to him — yourself."

"Yeah," John relents.

He can take a hint, especially so blatantly presented: Sherlock needs his attention right now, and without any judgement over the manner in which it was requested.

________________

Sherlock arrives twenty minutes later, having taken a bit longer than the walk from Harley Street should be. John elects not to mention the scent of fresh tobacco smoke on his coat as he goes to the door to meet him and give him a kiss on the cheek. They haven't shared any more intense kisses since his surgery; John won't initiate until he starts feeling like his oral hygiene is back to normal. He still hasn't properly brushed his molars for fear it'll disturb the surgical scars. There are no stitches and he'd shed the scabs on day eleven with no bleeding, so the risk of complications is approaching none, but he really doesn't want to poke around in there. Looking at the tonsil removal sites in the mirror tells him little — he has no idea how they're supposed to look at this point. He has an appointment with Collings in four days to decide the length of the sick leave. He knows already that he won't have the energy to be on call for some time, even if he goes back to work in a week.

Sherlock accepts the offer of a bath. He takes his time — long enough that the water must've cooled down. When John hears the water sloshing as he steps out, he knocks on the door with the bathrobe Sherlock had received for Christmas from his parents. It had still been in its packaging but waiting on a chair in the bedroom, so John assumes Sherlock had meant to use it.

"It should have been washed first," Sherlock protests, but still slips into it when John holds it up for him. "Have you been up all evening?"

"Most of the day, actually."

Sherlock wraps the robe tightly around himself, looking defensive while John watches him from the doorway. "Go on, then. I can tell you want to address the elephant in the room."

"There's no elephant," John says, crossing his arms and watching Sherlock scrutinise his five-o'clock-shadow in the mirror above the sink. Sherlock hates it, but if he shaves it now, he might have to do it again in the morning to keep his face as smooth as he prefers at work. He seems torn by the decision, hand hovering towards the right shelf in the cabinet he's opened. His hair is dry — he'd washed it yesterday and applied the necessary products.

"I know she called you," Sherlock says angrily, his head hidden from view by the mirrored door.

"After you gave her permission to do so. Don't be angry with her. Or embarrassed. I'm glad she did."

"Why?" Sherlock slams the door without taking out his shaving kit.

John pinches the inside of his cheek between his teeth, trying his damnedest to choose the right words. "Because it means you want me to know what's going on with you."

"Necessity and want are two different things."

"Was it a good session today?"

"You mean, do I want to regurgitate its contents to you?"

John struggles to contain his flaring temper. He's trying hard right now — _struggling just as much as Sherlock struggles_ , he thinks — to be supportive and talk about stuff. He knows Sherlock being prickly and offensive is just a coping mechanism, but it's tiring to be at the receiving end.

John goes to him, wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders in a way that traps his arms by his sides. "It's private, what the two of you talk about. It was good that you let her call me. I want to know what's going on with you. And I'm not angry that you couldn't tell me yourself. You told me you don't know — that you can't deduce it. And that's why you went to see her." He presses his cheek against the bony shoulder covered by the Yves Delorme robe. "That's why we've got all those therapist people. For when we have no idea what's going on in our own heads."

John lets his arms drop when Sherlock tries to step to the side. He collects his socks and underwear and drops them into the laundry basket. "What do you even mean by a 'good' session?" he asks incredulously. "What constitutes such a thing?"

"Well," John starts, "I remember talking to Pichler about you, how you think and how your brain works, and that was really helpful." He wants to bite his tongue when he sees the flash of anger and hurt in Sherlock's quick glance at him. _Underlining how he's different — shite move right now, Watson_.

John scrambles to continue on a different note. "Then there were those sessions with Molly that were really tough, but they made me understand better why things went to hell after Bastion."

"You were injured. It was very logical what happened as a consequence. Why do they want to make such a fuss about all that? It's pointless. It's _in the past_ ," Sherlock snarls at the mirror he's returned to so he can apply some goop from a small container under his eyes.

"They? Who's they?" John takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub. Standing up for long periods of time is still a bit much for his condition.

"Your therapist. Pichler. I suppose that is how they ensure repeat business — by painting devils where there are none."

"She's just trying to help. If you think she's got something all wrong, then––"

Sherlock's lips are pinched tight, eyes narrowed in anger. "When I'm in there, she… She has a way of seducing me with all this asinine _understanding_ when all she's doing is misunderstanding things. There's _nothing wrong with us, John_. Nothing wrong with this marriage."

"I don't think so either," John offers. "At least not now. Pichler said that there's some stuff you've been remembering––"

"She told you that, did she? Had a delightful little gossip session about me, the two of you?"

"No. She was very discreet about what you'd allow her to tell me," John says, wanting to defend her. Sherlock has never come home from a session angry at Doctor Pichler like this.

"There's stuff about when you were a kid that you agree has been good to talk about," John suggests carefully. Sherlock seems to willing to talk — at least complain — and he wants to cherish the opportunity. "With Pichler, I mean?"

"Yes. But that has nothing to do with whether there's anything to talk about regarding after Afghanistan."

"You sound so pissed off that it makes me wonder if that's entirely true. I started seeing Molly, but it was tough for both of us. Can't hurt, can it, talking about it?"

"There should be nothing for me to discuss. I was fine."

"You were in a halo vest."

"I wasn't the one who got shot and had PTSD." Sherlock puts the cream back on the shelf and closes the cabinet.

They leave the bathroom and turn in opposite directions. John decides not to ask whether Sherlock wants dinner — he can't have eaten anything in hours. He takes out the Styrofoam container from the fridge and spoons some of it onto a plate, which he sticks in the microwave while Sherlock hangs up his suit in the bedroom wardrobe and changes to a pyjama and his dressing gown.

"You can't eat that yet, it's too coarse," he declares upon noticing the steaming plate on the kitchen table.

"It's for you. I had some soup earlier."

"Presumptuous of you to just assume I want dinner. Seems to be the theme of the day; everyone else knows better than me what I need, even when they're utterly clueless."

John hides his fond smile. _Sometimes_ _Sherlock is pretty easy to read_. When he's bristling histrionically like this, flinging melodramatic insults at everyone, he's just venting his frustration at something else. "Sherlock Holmes, love of my life, would you care for some dinner?"

Sherlock goes to the table but doesn't take a seat. He grabs the fork, pokes at a piece of salmon to break it apart. "It's a bit overcooked. With _si-io khao_ rather than darker soy sauce?"

"Yep."

"There's broccoli."

"My sincerest apologies."

"And they've been skinflints on spring onions."

"Last time you complained that the stuff we ordered from Jikoni was drowning in them."

Reluctantly, Sherlock drops into a chair and skewers a bit of salmon. John goes to sit on the sofa, spreads a throw on his knees and tries not to pay attention to how little Sherlock will actually consume of his portion.


	12. Termination

Joanna picks a few wilted lettuce bits out of the plastic container housing her salad. There's still fifteen minutes before her last appointment of the day. Though it's been a long day of getting to know several new clients, she still has energy left for Sherlock Holmes. A delight in how much progress he's made and also a formidable professional challenge, she knows she needs to be on her best game with him. Not only is he exceptionally intelligent and a colleague, his neuroatypicality and past negative experiences with therapy require finesse from a person seeking his trust. Their last appointment had been two days ago; she had suggested scheduling another soon after, since Holmes seems to need intensified support. Joanna is not certain she would call this a crisis yet, but she wants to keep a close eye on him. She feels that they have built a good rapport, which is why she is surprised when he strides in ten minutes early, the entire form of him tight and dismissive. Anger shines bright on his features.

Holmes says nothing to her, just unbuttons his long, woollen coat and stands stiffly close to the appointment room door.

She senses the urgency in his actions, which makes her decide she won't make him wait ten extra minutes while she reviews her notes from their last session. "Hello, Sherlock. Go on in," she prompts, depositing the rest of her lunch back in the fridge.

He makes no move to enter the room. Instead, he tells her, "I've come to terminate our association."

She doesn't even attempt to conceal her surprise. "What? Why?" Her first thought is that she'd crossed a line, somehow, in asking to contact his partner when they'd last spoken. Once he'd got over his initial skittishness he’d seemed relieved at the suggestion. At least that’s how Joanna had read it.

"I don't know what you're playing at, and I don't care to even investigate it. I won't be requiring your services any longer," Holmes announces, piercing gaze locked onto her.

"Yes, you've said, but don't you think we should talk about this? Out of respect for all the work we've done together?" She tries not to make it sound as if she's trying to guilt him into anything, but picking the right words with him is difficult at the best of times. He's reacted adversely to her suggestions and comments before, but not like this. She needs to find out — and quickly — what the gist of the issue is. He's vibrating with angry, anxious energy which brings forth the impulse to comfort him with words, to find something physical to which he could divert those intense emotions, but if she can't get him to have a dialogue, there's little he'll allow her to do to help.

Suddenly, an idea occurs. Instead of trying again to coax him to take off his coat, she grabs her own from a hanger on the wall near the kitchen only a few paces away.

"Let's walk. It won't be a session if you don't want one, but you look like you could use some air. Call it an exit interview?" She hopes that it won't be, but it's probably best to humour him right now, to respect the decision he is trying to make.

"Walk where?" he asks, hesitant to follow her out of the front door.

"Cavendish Square Gardens?" The small green space won't give them a long promenade, but it's the closest park she can think of.

"Regent's Park," he counters. "It's closer to home."

"Alright," she relents. She locks up the practice, aware that she's leaving her phone and her purse behind, but she fears he'll leave if she goes back for them. Normally, she'd never go anywhere with a client without a means to communicate with emergency services, but it's not the first time she'd had to adapt and improvise, to bend her usual rules and practices for Sherlock Holmes.

Reticent, hands in pockets, he heads towards the pedestrian crossing at the corner of Harley Street and New Cavendish Street. His legs are much longer than hers and he's walking fast, prompting Joanna to wonder if John Watson has to half-jog to keep up with the man.

Sherlock seems to realise that she is struggling to keep up and slows down as they cross the street. He's a man of his word; he'd agreed to this walk with her.

"Can you tell me what prompted this decision?" she asks.

"For some reason, you seem to want to harm my relationship with John."

She's taken aback by this, forced to swallow down a bit a righteous indignation over how much she thinks she has supported Sherlock in his marriage. _This is important_ , she reminds herself, shifting focus from her own surface emotions back to trying to decipher him. _Following the deductive chain that has led to this accusation will hold the key to defusing his distrust_. "I could assure you that has never been my intention, but that wouldn't help right now, would it?"

He shakes his head.

"When you left our last appointment, I didn't have the impression that you were dissatisfied with what we'd talked about or angry."

"I couldn't stop thinking about certain points you raised. Certain points I didn't accept then but was inclined to agree with to get you off my back."

"I'm sorry if I've made you feel pressured like that. I must reiterate that the last thing I would want is for our sessions to harm your marriage, but I must hear from you to learn what I should have done differently. May I hear the evidence for your claim?"

"I assumed… Let me rephrase. Throughout our work, you have sought to provide me ideas of how others might perceive my relationships with them. You have helped me see good things where I assumed there were none, and you have even managed the herculean feat of convincing me I might benefit from trying to understand my mother instead of condemning her."

"I certainly hope so, yes. That is one of a therapist's tasks — to help clients see things from different, fresh perspectives."

"Which is why I found it rather distasteful and difficult to understand why you would try to paint John, of all people, in such a negative light. As though he was some…" Holmes scoffs, refusing to even say the words.

Joanna doesn't quite breathe a sigh of relief — there's a lot to discuss, to reframe, to explain, but at least she now knows which things in their last session may have brought this on. "Things are not as black and white as your anger may have prompted you to believe. We are all capable of treating our partners both badly and kindly. Certain behaviours are rare and uncharacteristic, while certain others might be a part of a pattern. I believe I made this point during our last session as well, that it's not fair to summarise a person based on just one of their behavioural traits which has presented under duress."

"Yet that is _precisely_ what you did," Sherlock accuses. "Why would you even bring up such things? John is not abusive. He's not some… We're not that. We're fine."

"I raised the topic of some of his behaviours towards you after Afghanistan because you were experiencing anxiety connected to him being convalescent."

There's a pause in the conversation as they must divert to walking on a car lane instead of the sidewalk because of a water pipe being unearthed by a crew of construction workers. Joanna curses that she'd worn heels today, even though they're quite low.

"I'm not some battered wife. My mother always told me I shouldn't be in relationships because I could be easily taken advantage of. You once told me that individuals on the ASD Spectrum can be bullied and not realise it. Next, I suppose you'll be telling me that I couldn't spot such behaviour in a romantic relationship, either, that I would be blind to spot these 'patterns' you keep on about. But you're both wrong. Only an idiot wouldn't recognise being in an abusive relationship."

"Do you think that only individuals who are not very intelligent end up in relationships where abusive behaviour can take place?"

"I––" he hesitates.

The only way to get past Holmes' defences tends to be through cold, hard logic. "It appears that you consider it not just a defamation of John's character that I raised the subject but also an insult to your intelligence."

His pace has picked up again; it's the equivalent of storming off in a huff. "Sherlock, could you slow down?" They're now at the edge of the square. She nods towards a park bench. "Sit down with me. Please?"

He does so, coiled tight and jiggling his foot, ready to spring to flight. When this anxious, he always seems younger than his age, boyish, unsure what to do with the proportions of his body.

"John is not a bad person, and I won't have you try to frame him as such."

"I very much agree that he is not a bad person. In so many ways, he is an ideal partner for you, and he has sought help himself in recovering from the trauma he went through and for resolving certain long-term issues. If I considered him a harmful, abusive partner to you now, I would have raised the subject with you."

"You _did_ raise the subject!"

"John gave Dr Hooper permission to debrief me about their sessions before I saw him for a consultation, so I am also familiar with his family history. I assume you know that John experienced severely abusive behaviour from his father for much of his childhood."

"There is no love lost between him and his father, but not everyone who goes through that behaves in the same way towards others."

"We imitate patterns we see at home, especially in times of stress. Violence outsources responsibility, diverts blame, transposes shame onto another person. Behaviour that serves those same purposes takes many forms." Suddenly, she comes up with a new angle. Could changing the semantics change the game? "I apologise if how I chose to frame things is unacceptable. As I said, I need to hear from you to do better. How would you describe John's behaviour towards you when you were at Bastion together and after you returned home?"

She notices that he's flicking his right thumbnail along his fingertips nervously and concealing that hand with his other palm — nervous stimming.

"John was… angry because that was not how he wanted his military career to end. He was disappointed in himself because his injury prevented him from helping others in the aftermath of the ambush. He feared for his medical career, I suppose, because he could not initially be certain that he would recover well enough to continue being an anaesthetist. He was exhausted because he couldn't sleep very well due to the PTSD. Well, not PTSD yet at that point by definition, but still."

"You have described his general mindset and his feelings and behaviours towards his medical career, but what about you, Sherlock?"

"Unimportant. He was the one suffering."

"Does suffering entail others to treat their partners…" she trails out, wanting to avoid describing John Watson, even indirectly, in a way that would cause Sherlock's claws to come out again. "…in a way they don't deserve?"

"Who decides what someone deserves?"

"That is a very good question. You said that others remarked on John's behaviour towards you. What things did they point out?"

"You're doing it again. Trying to twist facts to your liking."

"I'm trying to help you answer my question. How did he behave towards you? And how did that behaviour make you feel?"

Holmes doesn't answer. Joanna suspects this is because they've reached a flood of emotions and words and he fears that he won't pick the right stones to step on to get across.

"When did the nightmares and the anxiety start?"

"When John was hospitalised. I assumed it would all stop when it became apparent that he'd survived the surgery, hadn't needed intensive care, and when the risk of a complication became low enough to be negligible."

"What kinds of things about your honeymoon did that make you remember or dream about?"

"Mostly about waking up and finding him dead. He was at the hospital, not our house, when the Dengue was at its worst."

Holmes says this with his eyes cast downward and away from Joanna. His tone is quiet, distant, as though he's talking about something he read in a paper. She has made a note of his ability to dissociate which must be useful at work, but when it comes to his emotions, it just makes him float further away from the chance of understanding them. "Logical, wouldn't you say? On both occasions, John developed a sudden illness requiring help which you could not provide."

He nods resignedly, studies his fingernails.

"What about Afghanistan? What things have made you most nervous in the past few weeks that aren't about your African honeymoon?"

"Coming home from work to John is the worst. I never know––" he draws a careful breath, "I didn't know what mood he'd be in. In the nightmares… I can do nothing right. In the nightmares he's there constantly, hounding me, telling me how I'm always messing things up."

"Did John express such things after Afghanistan?"

"He told me I was self-centred, that things I achieved made him feel bad about his own career, that I was useless as a domestic partner, that I was high-maintenance, unwilling to accommodate his needs for socialising as a couple, that I flaunted my daily work achievements at him when he was still recovering, that I made a mountain out of a molehill with the halo vest because I'm spoiled and conceited. That he––"

Holmes swallows. His tone is steely and once again, he sounds like he's not talking about anyone he even knows personally. "He kept… pecking at me at home. Trying to find something that was wrong in everything I said to him. I didn't know what I could say about my day or my plans or… anything, that he couldn't twist to a rant on my shortcomings. He told me he had to go to Afghanistan to get away from having to compare us professionally."

Joanna's brows have hitched up. "That's… a lot, don't you think? He said these things out loud?"

"Yes, most of them in many versions."

"Still — playing devil's advocate here for a change — many people say things they later regret during arguments. Why do you think you are remembering those things, now?"

He shrugs. "I guess coming home to find him in a dressing gown and a foul mood might be outwardly similar to our circumstances then. He has apologised many times and explained why he felt the need to say such things. I accept his reasoning and I can see why his… situation made him feel like that. He doesn't need to be raked over the coals for any of it now."

"It's about accountability, Sherlock, not punishment. And it's also about boundaries."

"I shouldn't have made such a big deal about the nightmares. I should have known you'd insist on over-analysing them, reading too much into all this. I am _fine_. None of what happened can affect us now."

"Just like the way you were treated as a child by your mother doesn't affect you anymore, because it's just water under the bridge? You haven't done anything wrong, Sherlock, by needing to process these things, by having anxiety because John's situation has brought these things back for you. You were not receiving therapeutic support after the two of you returned from Afghanistan. John had an outlet for processing what happened, which has helped him move on, but we have not touched much upon that period in your marriage in your therapy. You cannot break anything by discussing it with me — if anything, it might dispel some of the anxiety you feel about those time periods."

"John is _nothing_ like my mother."

"I agree. John's intentions are very different, but perhaps because of your mother, certain things John sometimes has done have hurt you like a precision strike. Like your mother, John is one of the most important people in your life. When those people hurt you, it really does cut deep."

"I still can't see the relevance now."

"Could it be that you are sensitive to John behaving indifferently or negatively towards you, because you fear the rejection you've experienced all your life from him above all others? John has attended therapy to process these things, and a part of _his_ process has been to acknowledge his behaviour and make amends for it, apologise to you for the things he said and did. But has there been an opportunity for you to _express_ how those things made you feel? That is what I was trying to build, Sherlock, not dismantle your marriage. John's had his turn to face these things with the support of a professional, but you didn't have that. You had to deal with all of it alone."

She leans forward, seeking eye contact she knows is hard for him to manage at such times, but she needs his full attention. "Sherlock?"

The ire seems to have dissipated from his features. In its place is now confusion, perhaps a bit of fear over what she's about to say. "Yes?"

"Would it be fair to say that you dealt with it by not dealing with it? When you were growing up, there was no one you to whom could express the emotions your relationship with your mother created, so those emotions remained largely unaddressed until a few Christmases ago. After Afghanistan, you were in survival mode, pushing your emotions aside again to help John who was in crisis. Your turn never quite came, did it?

"When we love someone, we have to take down our defences to open ourselves up to be loved in return. That makes it hard for us to protect ourselves if that person hurts us. Even when their behaviour is understandable, it hurts. When John apologised for his behaviour, what did you respond?"

"I told him it was unnecessary."

"How did he react?"

"He kept insisting he needed to do it. I didn't understand why."

"When you told him it was unnecessary, you dismissed the notion that there was anything to apologise for. It was important for him to be honest, to acknowledge that he wanted to do better. He was asking you to acknowledge that."

"How was I supposed to know all those things? I was just trying to be… graceful, I guess."

"Do you feel as though there is equality in your relationship now?"

"In the sense that I think John would be the likeliest to leave, no. He seems to want to stay. That's on him."

"So, it's _'on him'_ , it's his loss and his fault, if he chooses to love you?"

Holmes stares at her. There is shock in his expression and instead of the human version of a racehorse expecting to dart off at any second, he now appears frozen in place.

"His love for you does not need to be repaid with tolerance for behaviours which hurt you. I would say that your relationship with him is on steady ground in general, but during times of stress and when he needs you but you also need his support, my impression is that you cannot ask for what you need because certain past experiences are preventing you from feeling entitled to that support."

"I'm not afraid of him," Holmes counters, but his statement lacks conviction. If anything, he appears bewildered.

This wrong-footedness, this confoundment, is the no-man's-land upon which the greatest therapeutic strides can be achieved. Joanna knows he must tread carefully, but she's glad to have arrived here instead of the backwoods of anger out of which she'd had to entice him.

"I don't think that you are afraid of him now, not in the usual sense. But can you say that you didn't feel the same impulse to self-police your behaviour at home after his discharge that you felt after Afghanistan?"

"I couldn't understand why I dreaded his discharge as much as I looked forward to it."

"It's a long way from subconsciously fearing someone who's making the atmosphere tense at home twisting your every word to trusting them with your feelings, isn't it?"

"That doesn't change the fact that I'm the problem. As much as you wax dramatic about it being _normal_ to be affected by such nonsense after all this time, the outcome is that John needed me, and I couldn't get over the anxiety and the… these things."

"As we discussed last time, these things don't ever happen at the right time, and often when it rains, it pours. How did John receive you after our last session?"

"He had ordered in food, had chosen it based on my preferences. He looked tired but wanted to watch some tv with me after helping me with a bath. Perhaps he was doing all of it because you called him."

"Did he appear annoyed or unwilling to do so?"

"No. He was… attentive. Concerned," Sherlock adds, making the concept sound distasteful.

"When we feel like we need to walk on eggshells with a partner, and we fear that they might criticise and belittle us for anything and everything we do, when they make us feel like we are to blame for everything that goes wrong… those are not healthy features in a relationship, Sherlock, and not easy to forget once experienced. They can make it difficult to trust that person with your feelings. There is also the fact that you may have been particularly unequipped to protect yourself from how John reacted and behaved after Afghanistan due to your earlier life experiences. It's a volatile combination. Let me make this clear: your and John's relationship would not tick very many boxes on checklists of abusive relationships. Not right now. But John has acknowledged in his own therapy process, in order to understand why it happened, in order to change and to improve your relationship, that there was a period during which more boxes were clearly ticked. You hold him in very high regard, and those experiences contradict the pedestal you've put him on. When that leads to glossing over behaviours which once hurt you, that hurt is not repaired — it's reinforced."

"And you want me to do… what? Accuse him of something? Punish him? Leave him? _What?_ "

"No, of course not. I think the two of you are doing fine. This is about you, Sherlock. Just as it is with your mother, the key is to explore _your_ feelings, to accept them and give them space. That's what I am here for. Our sessions are that space, a place where we can look at them in… let's say it's like a laboratory in which we can safely examine things which might wreak havoc if released into your home environment."

"I need to trust John, not strategize or have some weeping sessions over things he might have said to me when he was just angry and frustrated because of his injury. Anyone whose profession and livelihood and army career are under threat would feel that way."

"Does it justify taking those emotions out on others?"

He crosses his arms. " _No permanent damage done_ ," he announces venomously.

"It can't cause harm to your relationship now, Sherlock, if you acknowledge that you felt unsafe emotionally during that time. It's just a statement of facts. You have the right to those emotions even if you forgive and accept John's reasons for behaving that way."

Holmes looks sceptical.

"Much of what we have discussed and processed regarding your mother has to do with acknowledgement, for having a safe space to express your feelings and to decide that your pain deserves acknowledgement. Even if you never speak with John about these things, knowing that you have the right to think they are important things to process should help."

"With what?"

"With the way you are feeling at home right now. I am not seeking to damage your relationship — I am hoping to strengthen it by making sure there's room in it for both your emotions. Right now, you are saving all the space for John's while boxing yourself in tighter and tighter. As a result, your emotions are bursting out of the seams. They don't disappear just because we tell them they should. They're just dormant, waiting. This is what happened with your mother. I assume the last thing you'd want is for those things to fester when it comes to John."

This seems to give Holmes food for thought.

"We all have constructive traits and destructive traits, benign defences and ones that only end up hurting ourselves when we employ them. I’ve read that even Mother Teresa could be quite a temperamental woman with a hurtful tongue. Emotional space and the right to it, Sherlock — that's all. I apologise if I failed to explain myself well the last time we spoke. All I wish for you and John is that you feel as equal as possible in your marriage, and that there's room for both of you in it."

Holmes leans back on the bench, looking calmer than he's been so far during this conversation. "It appears I may have… misconstrued certain concepts about our last conversation."

"But you chose to talk to me about it instead of just marching off after terminating our therapeutic partnership. That's very good. In fact, it's the lesson I should have hoped you'd take away here — that it's always best to talk, even if it's frightening. We often fear a much worse outcome with emotional conversations than what eventually transpires."

"Let me guess: that's your roundabout way of saying I should talk to John about all this, to dig up all the skeletons I could ever come up with."

She grins. "Not quite. But I hope you could accept that when you become aware that something's bothering you, it’s a sign that a talk might be in order. I know you fear John's reactions to whatever revelations you think remain about your mental landscape and your past, but judging by everything I know about your husband, I'd say you have very little to worry about. The two of you have been through quite a lot. In sickness and in health, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To cheer up ourselves and our fellow sherlockians in these dark times, I teamed up with Elldotsee for [**a podcast**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7lhJoozYIg&feature=youtu.be) which features postcards to the fandom from such familiar names as khorazir, Beautifulfiction, Engazed, Atlin Merrick and many more. We also assembled [a list of fics mentioned and/or recommended in the podcast](https://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/639138072218484736/fics-recommended-in-our-year-end-podcast).


	13. Summons To Sussex

Running his fingers through the curls his surgical cap had flattened, Sherlock is just about to enter the OR floor break room when he hears voices through the open doorway. He stops to listen, concealed still in the corridor from the conversants. He can recognise the voice of one of the recently minted plastic surgery consultants, a young man by the name of Keynes. Arrogant, cocksure and gossipy, dating his way through the nursing staff, Sherlock does not have a very high opinion of him. Admittedly, Keynes has surgical skills above his career stage, but he's still a walking stereotype with the smarmy social skills needed to climb the proverbial ladder. Judging by the contents of the conversation, Keynes appears to be speaking — monologuing, even — at a group of recently arrived trainees.

"There's just one in this unit you've got to look out for. Name's Holmes. Whatever you do, don't get on his bad side. _Trust_ me, all you need to do to achieve that is to breathe in their direction wrong, and you can be sure to need some proper cries in the broom closet if you're unlucky enough to end up in the OR with him again. And don't go griping to any of the bosses about him, either, because he's such a fucking star that they all eat out of his hand, especially Watson who can pull rank on all the unit heads. Still, Watson's one of the good ones, really; you can go to him with whatever else you need, but the guy's got to have some serious dark side since he actually _married_ that arsehole Holmes. Fuck if I know what he sees in him."

There's a snort from a very newly minted female ENT consultant. "I wouldn't kick him out of bed. Shame he's gay."

"I don't think anyone gets it, really," another female voice, one Sherlock does not recognise, points out, "they say love's blind but in Holmes' case that's not the issue — deaf is what it should be."

Keynes has a theory. "Maybe he's just really good at, you know––"

There's a slight pause before some hearty chuckles, which makes Sherlock suspect some gesture has been made to emphasize the point. The conversation then dies down. Sherlock can hear the sound of newspaper pages being leafed, and then the tea kettle whistles.

He reminds himself not to care about the opinions of idiots. John does not answer to anyone in his romantic choices. What they were saying is beyond inappropriate, but Sherlock has learned from years of trial and error that calling people out on their behaviour will only backfire on him. He can't win by entering the battlefield, and he's dithered at the door long enough that they wouldn't even suspect he's heard it all. There wouldn't be mortification on their faces, just secretive, smug glances behind his back.

The only feasible plan is to turn on his heel and make his way out of the OR unit. He's just going to stay in his office for the rest of the day, catch up on paperwork. He shoves his surgical cap in his pocket — it's the bee one John gave him years ago, and heads towards the surgical floor exit.

It's not the first time he's heard such talk. He's earned a modicum of respect here as a surgeon; people know he remains firmly in the payroll because he's a very good surgeon. But, apart from a few select exceptions, they'll never like him. There will always be a chasm between him and them. _This is how it's always been… and it should have stopped hurting by now._

 _People_ , he curses inwardly in the lift which he thankfully doesn't have to share with anyone. _Caring is not an advantage. It doesn't save patients, and it won't change those idiots' opinions of someone they've chosen to loathe._ Why is it that the social cohesion of a group seems to be intensified most effectively by choosing someone to represent an enemy or a target? Sherlock has never understood office politics or many staff members' need to turn a workplace into a social club. _Can't they just do their work and go home — find fulfilment and a social life elsewhere if such nonsense is what they crave?_

He shares an office with another surgeon, a lower gastrointestinal system specialist. They don't talk much, so his presence is usually not an obstruction to Sherlock's concentration, but now he grits his teeth when he finds the man sitting at the window desk. They exchange courteous hellos and Sherlock slumps into his chair, wondering if he could commission a partition to hide his colleague from view. What does he think about Sherlock? The man has never voiced his opinions, and Sherlock is almost certain he has never insulted or bothered the colleague in any way. Almost.

 _I don't care_ , he tries on for size. _I only care about what John thinks_.

The problem still remains that it's not just him that's affected by his reputation. It's a black soot that sticks on John, too. Just as the group in the break room has just demonstrated, John is universally liked and respected, but nobody understands his taste in partners. They must extrapolate from what they see in John's work persona that he would be a good spouse and, by extension from what they believe about Sherlock, that he'd be a terrible one.

Why does he even try to change or combat people's opinions of him? They are formed before they even get to know him! They are forged in office gossip, in rumours, in anecdotes and assumptions.

And it hardly helps that some of those assumptions about what sort of a partner he is — what he can't or cannot bring to a relationship — are true.

_Better to be feared than pitied, but neither is a tolerable option in a marriage._

______________

_At least it's Friday_ , Sherlock thinks as he slips his scarf around his neck and tucks the ends through the loop. Buttoning his coat as he jogs up the stairs to the entrance floor from the lockers in the basement, his phone vibrates with a message.

 _'Left side of Normandy building from the main entrance'_ , Edgar has written.

Why is the PA here? Sherlock hadn't requested any assistance with transport home. Has John cooked up some plan to surprise him?

 _'I have your train ticket'_ , Edgar's next message reads.

Sherlock blinks in confusion. _What on Earth is Edgar on about?_ He realises he hasn't had the energy to check his calendar appointment entries in God-knows-how-long; he's simply relied on the PA to remind him of things. He brings up his calendar while marching out the main entrance, and when he sees the entries for the weekend, he grunts in frustrated horror: he's supposed to go to Sussex today, stay the weekend. He'd completely forgot, and tomorrow is that wretched Christmas market which Violet as the head of the village council is opening with a short speech. Sherlock had promised to play violin at the occasion. He'd reluctantly agreed to this after Violet had given him such grief about refusing to perform at the village fete in August. In hindsight, that would have been a better pick, considering string instruments do not appreciate major temperature changes. At least Violet had assured him that the opening would happen inside a heated barn-turned-into-a-function-space at a local manor, Walstead House, on the grounds of which the two-day market is held. He now remembers what they'd planned: that Edgar would escort him to Victoria Station, help him into the carriage since he'd be carrying several things, and his father would drive him to Snowdrop Lane from Haywards Heath station.

The cab door squeaks on its hinges when Sherlock yanks it open and arranges himself into the backseat next to Edgar.

"Where's your bag?" the PA asks, "and your violin…?"

"I didn't pack because I forgot this damned weekend thing."

Edgar glances at his Balenciaga watch. "I don't think we can make it to Baker Street to pack and then get to the train station before the train departure. I will make a packing detour after we drop you off, courier what you need to your parents' house."

"That's assuming I intend to go."

"You don't want to?" Edgar asks, frowning.

"Let's see… do I want to spend my precious free time enabling my mother's small-minded attempts at not feeling obsolete by being a busybody in the local tea circles in her retirement?"

Edgar opens his mouth, intending to present an answer. Sherlock gives him a venomous glance which snaps his jaw back up.

The cabbie turns towards the back seat. "Where're you lads off to, then?"

"221 Baker Street," Sherlock announces. "And don't try to get there through Marylebone Road. It's a carpark at this hour."

______________

Standing at the front door, Sherlock hesitates to push the key into the lock. Indecision has become a fog through which he's trying to push whatever he does. Stopping to consider even for a second if he even cares what happens in the next few seconds, minutes or hours shoves him back to the start, and he's now made that mistake regarding the weekend.

He hates how he'd let those idiots in the OR floor break room get into his head. People can't usually lance through his defences like that. He knows he protects himself by pushing others away, prefers to be feared rather than pitied. He believes that who he is, could never be something people would want, so it's better to construct a public persona they can hate for understandable reasons. It's a mask he can take off when he goes home, put it on the mantle and breathe more freely. But is the end result different? He stands on the outside, the meagre successes of his herculean efforts at managing social conduct few and far between. People assume he's cold, aloof, mean, even psychopathic… not a person someone nice and good and likeable and helpful like John would want to be with.

He cannot go upstairs and smile at John, feign that everything's fine. And if he doesn't, he's expected to explain himself.

 _Children can manage what I cannot_. _All these people, always talking, endlessly droning on about their emotions, some of them so good at it that they carve a career out of it like Joanna Pichler. Nobody's taught John, and he can still do it. Anyone can, except for me — I can't manage it even when my life the relationships that really matter depend on it._

He pushes the key in but doesn't turn it, because all that awaits inside is a catalogue of his failures. John would tell him differently and so would Pichler, but the very fact that they'd need to comment on the topic is the gist of the problem. People see it: they see how John protects him, lends him some of his social acceptability, but when John isn't there he feels so alone. Caught in the momentum of founding the new research centre, he'd managed to push all of this away, but now… the vacuum is being filled by everything he'd refused to address. And he doesn't know how to defuse the mess in his head.

_I'm just… paralysed. Petrified in silence. No connection between how I feel and what I can say about it. Mute. Defective._

He's just so tired. He's tired of thinking, tired of trying not to think. Tired of being too much and not enough at the same time.

He finally opens the door and enters the foyer — mostly just to shield himself from the biting wind.

He drags his form up the stairs. His answer to John's greeting is a sigh before he ends up sitting on the sofa, coat still on but unbuttoned, elbows on his knees as he rubs his face with his palms.

"One of those kinds of days, hm?" John asks. He's come to stand beside the sofa and bends to lean his head against Sherlock's, ruffling his neck hair a bit. "When's your train?"

Sherlock leans against the back cushions and gives John a wary glance. "You think I have the energy to see _her_ right now?"

John's expression shifts from fond and welcome to sober, and he takes a seat next to Sherlock. "I think you should go."

"You don't want me here. That just takes the bloody cake, doesn't it."

"Of course, I want you here. But I don't think it's good for you to spend the whole weekend cooped up here with me again. It's not good. You need something to do, even if it's not something you'd pick on your own. You haven't been doing much of the stuff you do enjoy lately, so it hardly matters what gets you off the sofa and out of here. Take Natch for a walk. Practice for tomorrow. Eat too many of Violet's scones. Just…"

"Have you been conspiring with her again?"

"Violet?"

"Pichler."

"No, I haven't. What has she said?"

"She didn't just _say_ things — she _threatened._ To put me _on something_ unless things change. Out of the question." They'd had a session two days prior, and Sherlock had been willing to admit that nothing seemed to have improved.

"But––"

"And I won't go, _can't_ go all the way to Sussex until your sick leave ends."

"It ends on Monday, Sherlock. I'm perfectly fine. If I just worked in an office, I would have probably been back after three weeks."

John's sick leave has lasted precisely four weeks today. He's been taking short walks, cooked dinner, been up all day for the past few days. He won't be taking call for a few weeks more, but he's recovering well.

"At least come with me," Sherlock pleads.

"Andrew's in town — invited me to dinner tomorrow when I said you were gone for the weekend."

Sherlock wonders about the convenience of this. _Did Andrew and Sonia seize the chance to spend time with John without having to put up with his intolerable husband?_

"Besides, I think Violet really wants to spend some time with you. And we wouldn't want to disappoint the village council, would we?" John says with a grin.

Sherlock manages an eye roll, but his heart isn't in it. The fact that the flat will be empty tomorrow evening does push him towards a decision: he'll go, but only because all the other options are hardly any better. It doesn't matter what he does this weekend, and at least his mother's company will make it feel longer.

_____________

On the train, Sherlock observes as the darkening evening shrouds first London's suburbs and then the village-congested southern English countryside. The only thing that breaks the monotony of staring out the window is his realisation that he doesn't feel the usual anticipatory dread over going to see his parents. Perhaps the grey stagnation that has trapped his thoughts has finally managed to evict even his anxiety. Or perhaps the spell his mother had cast over his life has finally been undone by years of therapy and a determination to be his own person free of her pessimistic prophecies.

Or is he feeling marginally less weighted down because he's going back to the only people who have never underestimated his struggles, never expected much of him beyond playacting a normal person who wouldn't embarrass them? When it comes to Sherlock's potential in managing the things his particular neuropsychiatry has made outstandingly difficult, John is the eternal optimist, Pichler the slightly more reserved but still positive coach, and his mother the pessimist.

Sometimes he even suspects she may have been the realist.

Perhaps she hadn't always predicted a failure rather than the eternal, draining uphill climb he has chosen and experienced. Curse his ambition, stubbornness and intellect for not being able to contend himself with village life, some menial profession and a few hobbies. He could have kept bees, busied himself in observing and cataloguing their lives. He could have been an academic, even, in chemistry or biology at some lesser-known university within a reasonable commute from how. That would have shielded him from the social conflicts of clinical work.

Then again, he would never have met John Hamish Watson.

_____________

The universe graces him with a miracle: a cab in front of the station. More often than not there have been none, and he's had to walked from the station to Snowdrop Lane. It would not a feasible plan with rolling piece of carry-on luggage and a violin.

When his mother opens the door, he replies nothing to her fussy, surprised greetings. He realises he should have messaged them about taking a later train. He'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts, so struggling to manage to logistics to get here, that other people just didn't fit into the equation.

"But how are you here?" Violet demands.

He glares at her. "For your ridiculous soiree tomorrow. Don't tell me _you've_ forgot."

Violet crosses her arms. "That nice young man who works for you called and said that you had an urgent work commitment and had to cancel."

 _Should have realised Edgar would do that_. _I did make it clear I had no desire to travel tonight._

"Edgar must have misunderstood." Sherlock leans down on his haunches to greet Natch who lets out an excited bark and is wagging so hard that half his now age-scruffy form is moving back and forth.

" _No barking_! George suspects he's getting a bit deaf, bless the old thing."

"Just because he doesn't want to listen to you doesn't mean he's deaf," Sherlock says resignedly and hangs his coat up.

Once Violet steps aside to let him out of the hall, he drags his belongings upstairs to his old room and crumples into a heap on the bed with his shoes still on. He knows he should take the suit he'd brought for tomorrow out of his carry-on, hang it up. It's the one he'd bought for Sandhurst. All that feels such a long time ago. He suspects it might not be such a perfect fit anymore; he's lost weight. He can tell John has been biting his tongue trying not to comment on his eating habits.

He can hear pots and pans clattering in the kitchen as well as the radio which often serves as the background noise to his mother's cooking. His father is out; Sherlock has a faint recollection that he was supposed to help with the booth construction at Walstead House. Violet probably thinks Sherlock should come downstairs and waste time on small talk, Sherlock doesn't have anything he would want to discuss with her. As a teenager, he often shut her out when she was being irritating. _Which was all the damned time_. His father's company was much more welcome; his amicable silence was preferable to her oppressive fussing.

 _Speaking of which._ Familiar steps — though more hesitant that usual — ascend the stairs, then pause by the door which Sherlock has left ajar. He knew she'd come and try to talk to him. _Probably to tell me it is the height of rudeness that I didn't stick around downstairs to socialise._

Violet enters after a single knock. As a teenager, Sherlock had learned to anticipate her arrival from the creaking of the steps rather than from that knock. It was a necessary skill to ensure enough time to get off the bed and pull his pants and trousers back up. Now, he doesn't even turn away from facing the wall.

Once inside Sherlock's old room, Violet tuts. "I haven't put sheets in that bed since _obviously,_ I didn't know to expect you."

"I'm not _in_ bed, I'm on top of the bedspread. Sheets don't matter." _She must be dreadfully put off by her evening plans changing twice_. _Good_. _Serves her right_. It's strange how easy he finds it now not to be provoked by her, not to feel too frustrated by her inability to understand him. All she needs to do is show him some respect — the same respect she's always awarded to Mycroft. _It wasn't a good idea to come here_ , Sherlock realises. He cannot tolerate small talk right now and being tetchy will only lead to a conflict with his mother. _What else is new?_

"Yes, I can see you're on top of it," Violet points out in a judgemental tone, "with your shoes on."

"I'll have it dry cleaned if it means so much to you."

Judging by the sound, Violet places a mug of tea on the desk. He doesn't know who it's for.

"I don't want anything," he says, aware of how spiteful his tone is. "You could ask, for once, and not assume."

She stands by the bed — Sherlock can tell from the way she's casting a shadow on the wall.

"I'll drink it, then," Violet decides. "It's not like you to be this disorganised with your schedules," she then points out. "Especially now that you have that assistant."

"Then again, you've kept telling me that I'm illogical and inconsistent and impulsive." The sarcasm falls flat due to his detached tone.

"Is something the matter? I must say you're in a dreadful mood."

"Why would there be something wrong?" mutters Sherlock, tucking his hand underneath the musty-smelling decorative pillow and closing his eyes.

"Did you have an argument with John? You're always so affected by such things."

"No, and I don't want to talk."

"You never do," Violet sighs.

"I can't, so I won't."

"Running away is not a good manner in which to resolve relationship trouble, Sherlock. Talking is much more effective."

"You and Dad never talked about things, either, and I'm not having any _relationship trouble_. John practically sent me here because he thinks I needed… _fresh air_. I wasn't keen on coming, and I certainly didn't come here for your advice."

Violet sits down in the desk chair, leans forward a bit. Facing the wall, he can't see her, but can tell what she's doing from the creaking of the floor and the chair and from the shadows shifting on the wall. This room was his safe haven from everything as a child and a teenager. He chose to leave it behind, but it has always been here, waiting.

"You can hardly expect us to have those sorts of conversations in your and Mikey's presence. If you didn't want to come here, then why––"

Sherlock sits up to glare at her. "Can't you just let me be for once?! I'll play tomorrow, drink some mulled cider, smile at whatever people you need to peacock at."

"Don't shout at me."

"May I ask how John is recovering from his surgery?"

"As well as he should be, I suppose. I wouldn't know." Most of John's convalescence has floated by unregistered while he's been too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"You always pay such close attention to him. I thought you might have kept an eye on how things are going."

"Maybe I didn't. Maybe he has an ENT and other people to help him and look after him." It sounds like an accusation but at whom is unclear.

"And he's alright on his own for the weekend?"

"He's ambulatory, capable of remembering to take his pain medications and taking in enough fluids. He's well enough to go socialise tomorrow and will go back to work on Monday. He doesn't need me. I can't do anything for him."

"Is this the problem, dear?" Violet asks. "Why don't you think you can do anything? I'm sure he appreciates your company. It's rather miserable to be ill like that."

"I know it is." When he'd been in a halo vest, John had been… John had helped him. John had looked after him, hadn't he, even when he had been going through so many difficult things himself? Sherlock was in no state to support him because he was struggling, too. What excuse does he have now?

_I must be the most selfish person alive._

He slumps onto his back on the bed again, looking up at the ceiling as he attempts to blink away tears of frustration. It takes some time before he dares to look at his mother and let his gaze trace the worry lines and signs of age on her features. She'd probably blame most of them on him.

In twenty years, John will blame all of the signs of age and worry on his features on Sherlock. _Why does he even bother to be with me? What kind of a partnership is this that threatens to make him a pariah at work, makes people say vile things about him for choosing to be with me?_

"You came here tonight. You seem to be upset, and you still came home to us. That means a lot to me. To us," Violet says quietly, "even if you just followed John's advice. I want you to feel like this is a place where you are welcome, but I have come to understand it's not been like that for you."

He hums, a noncommittal little sound that could mean anything or nothing.

Violet finishes her tea and stands. "I've a roast in the oven. George will be home in a bit; we'll have dinner and then you can have a good night's sleep. We haven't seen you in a long time, so I'm sure George would want to spend some time with you once we're done with the Christmas market opening."

He nods, eyes downcast. Nothing entices right now. His phone vibrates on the bed next to him and he unlocks it, expecting a message from John. Instead, it's an automated announcement from Southern Railways about a strike closing down train services for most of Saturday.

"There's no train back tomorrow or on Sunday," he says with resignation. "Great. Just great." Being robbed of the possibility of returning whenever he wants or needs to feels claustrophobic.

The door opens downstairs. It must be George returning home.

"You look so tired; let's eat first before you decide on anything. I have some errands to run on Sunday morning, after which I can give you a lift. Or, if you wish, I will drive you back to London tomorrow."

"You don't have to do that. Any of that. Edgar can sort something out."

"No, I don't have to do so, but I want to. We'll pack some things from the market for you to take back to John."

"John is unlikely to be able to eat them just yet." Sherlock isn't sure which foods he can manage. Come to think of it, John's been eating quite normally in the past few days.

"Then we'll grab some ice cream on our way in."

He feels overwhelmed, bulldozed over and so, so tired. He doubts he can sweep aside the dark defeat that still lingers.

"It'll all look a lot better and easier tomorrow. Come on. You can give me a hand with the potatoes and assemble your own plate since you always tell me I have no idea how you want things to be," Violet says, and gives him a conspiratorial smile.

He drags himself off the bed.

"Have you told John you've arrived safely?"

"He can see where my phone is in an app on his own."

"I don't know what that means. You should message him."

"I will."

Violet considers this, then starts resolutely heading for the stairs. "Very well. Remind me to give you a set of sheets for the bed."

"Yes, Mummy."

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We met Andrew and Sonia in **_Scar Tissue_**.


	14. Ode To My Family

"Have you finally decided on what to play?" Violet asks as she leads Sherlock into the country house, nodding and greeting at various people along the way. "It should be short and to the point, preferably festive."

"I've been working on a Prokofiev sonata that's––"

Smiling like a hyena at a Barbour wax coat -clad older man who carried the air of a stuffy aristocrat, Violet gives Sherlock a very brief disapproving glance. "Nobody knows what that is, dear. What about some nice Elgar? Some Pomp and Circumstance is always appropriate."

"You and Mycroft would think so, yes, but I'm the soloist here and I am _not_ playing that. You can forget anything that's been ruined by weddings and royal nonsense."

"What about that Rondeau that's so beautiful?"

"The Mouret one? How is that any better known?"

Violet looks a bit sheepish. "We heard at our neighbour's daughter's wedding."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Very well. But only because it's a technically interesting piece and fits the tone you want."

Violet strides confidently through the rest of the entrance floor to an open back door from which a gravel path leads to a centuries-old stone barn. Christmas lights have been hung there and a small podium erected at the back. Villagers are bustling about carrying wares they intend to sell, signs to be hung up to instruct patrons where to go, and folding chairs.

"What about the second piece?" asks Violet.

"What second piece?"

"There should be a… fanfare of sorts at the start, and then something spirited but melodic at the end."

"What does that even mean?"

"What about Vivaldi? The Four Seasons is one of your father's favourites."

"I could do the _Largo_ from Winter." Vivaldi's over-played series of four short concertos wouldn't have been Sherlock's first choice, but he knows it well. It is a piece taught to all advanced violin students.

"Is that the slow part?"

"It's called _largo_ , so yes."

"Good, yes, that should work. Oh, I forgot to mention — Mister Thibaut might well be in the audience if his Parkinson's isn't acting up too badly. He had his ninetieth birthday last year!"

"Oh."

Sherlock now regrets not taking out his violin last night to practise. He should have also picked something a bit more demanding to play in front of his old violin tutor and French teacher. Georges Thibaut is the former concertmaster of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra who had moved to Sussex for his retirement with his wife Sarah, who is from Haywards Heath. After Sherlock had demonstrated an interest in the instrument when he'd seen and heard his cousins playing at family celebrations, Violet had told Sherlock he could have lessons if he behaved. Thibaut was more distinguished than anyone teaching beginner children needed to be, but he'd been giving lessons to several local children already and was happy to accept a new pupil. When Violet pulled Sherlock out of the village school, Thibaut became his French teacher as well. Lessons with the quiet, unassuming man who was very ambitious when it came to the achievements of his students had been one of the best things Sherlock remembers about growing up. Violin was one thing he turned out to be good at and about which Violet wasn't relentlessly on his case. In fact, Violet didn't seem to care much how he fared. All she paid attention to was whether he did was he was told in therapy and outside of it, and that he did his schoolwork.

The violin taught Sherlock to find joy in his own achievements instead of expecting it from other people — save for Mr Thibaut, whose smiles and nods when his young student mastered news technique felt like a soothing balm and helped Sherlock endure home life.

Violet is still thinking about Thibaut, too. "He was such a _Godsend_ , wasn't he!" she coos, readjusting her light blue jacket that's a half of a set with her pencil skirt, while Sherlock sets up a music stand; she'd folded her coat onto a chair.

Sherlock will only need the stand for the Rondeau; he still knows Winter by heart because it's one of John's favourites, too. "Yes, he was."

"I don't know what I would have done without the time you spent with him; they were the only breaks I ever got."

 _From me_ , Sherlock concludes in his head.

He wanders out of the barn and looks across the fields to where the River Ouse flows barely visible through the thick brambles lining the footpaths crisscrossing the grounds. Southern English Decembers tend to be snowless; the bare trees and wet, darkened grass and winter wheat paint the landscape in exactly the sort of bleak tones which must have inspired Vivaldi's composition. _He was Italian,_ Sherlock reminds himself, _but he wrote the quadruple concerto in Amsterdam, didn't he?_

Violet joins him outside. "We had to make do with Mrs Maudsley's daughter playing her trumpet last year. She wasn't very good," she says conspiratorially. "Not everyone is blessed with talent."

"I assume you made that opinion known," Sherlock says, his lip quirking up. His mother is not known for her diplomacy.

"I did raise the issue of what sorts of musical standards we should uphold at these occasions. What would the owners of the house say if we brought in some hideous boorish fiddler this year instead of someone like you who can play _properly_?"

Instead of being a National Trust property like so many grand-but-expensive-to-upkeep country piles these days, Walstead House is owned by a City Banker who'd struck gold with some hedge fund. Last night at dinner, Violet had told Sherlock of how much bad blood his behaviour had created. The locals were particularly aghast when he had dared to wall off many popular public footpaths and refused to participate in river conservation efforts. The man did eventually realise how much easier keeping good relations with the locals might make life in a small village, so the permission to hold the market at the estate was granted as a gesture of goodwill.

The housekeeper walks up to them, introduces herself, and asks if Sherlock would like to leave his violin inside a locked side room while they wait for the ceremony. There is plenty of time left, so he takes her up on the offer. He then explores the rooms of the house open to the public and wanders around the stalls on the grounds while Violet talks to various people about schedules and arrangements. She seems to know everyone which doesn't surprise him — she's been a part of the local charity scene for many years. She seems to have become one of those 'ladies who lunch' — quite a contrast to a university economics professor.

Sherlock is standing by an old stone vase emptied for the winter, sipping rather dreadful mulled wine, when Violet re-appears. She slips her arm into the crook of his, clearly in a good mood.

"It's good to be able to rely on family," she says excitedly. "You boys and George were all I had when you were growing up."

Sherlock indicates the bustle of the courtyard. "I don't remember you spending time with people from the village when we were small, just people Dad knew from work. Why do you do all this now? Why's it important? Who are all these people?"

Violet buttons up her sand-coloured swing coat. "They are as close as I can get to friends, I suppose."

"But what about…" Sherlock nearly says _real friends,_ but suspects this might be offensive. Something about her statement makes him wonder what lies behind it. Somehow, Sherlock's father had managed to cultivate friendships despite being a busy business manager. _Then again, he has always been the most normal of us Holmeses_.

"I didn't have many friends because my career didn't give me much of a chance for them. Well, that's not the whole truth, is it," Violet says.

Sherlock braces for the inevitable: a lecture on how her children — one child in particular — had ruined her plans and trapped her at home and deprived her of friends.

Instead, Violet says, "You see, I was never good at that sort of thing. People. Was a bit of a bookworm, never quite fit in with other girls and their fancies at school. Other children weren't interested in what I liked. I can't say I've ever enjoyed extensive socialising; it takes a lot out of a person, doesn't it? I do want to have other company occasionally than just your father. This, joining in to do concrete things, this keeps it at a tolerable level. I know what to expect, what my role is. I am told I am often too opinionated, too honest. Why is it that people can be offended by facts? That girl's trumpet-playing was dreadful, anyone could hear that."

She sounds bitter still over the conversation she has had with someone about this.

"People don't generally like it when their flaws are pointed out to them, even if it would be helpful sometimes," Sherlock replies. He can understand her frustration.

"There were other mothers in the village, but they found it awkward, I guess, when I tried to talk about you since they didn't understand what I was going through, what it was like. They were always bragging about the achievements of their children, so there was little space in conversation for your problems. Then, after I went back to work… people's lives move on when you don't keep in touch. They find other friends, and the people we'd socialised with tended to be George's friends and their wives, who were all very different from me. Many of them were housewives — that doesn't correlate with intelligence, of course, but I must say some of them were idiots and I have no patience for that."

She clears her throat. "As I said, I was never a group person. I didn't have a circle of girls my age to spend time with. I focused on my studies, instead, while they wasted time chasing boys. And I don't regret my choices one bit."

 _Why is she telling me this?_ "Studying is what university should be for, not for wasting time with social nonsense," Sherlock readily agrees. "I was disappointed to see how many medical students did not seem very interested in medicine."

"Your father is different, as you know, even though he took his studies seriously. People find him likeable, invite him to things. Always have."

"John, too."

"And Victor, it seemed. You said he was popular. That he had a party for his birthday and nearly all the boys from school attended."

Sherlock's head whips to the side to stare at her. She never speaks about Victor voluntarily unless it's to curse his very existence.

"First boy you brought home, wasn't he? Though… we weren't quite sure at the time. It seemed like the two of you were just friends."

Sherlock isn't certain how or when his parents had realised that he is gay. Perhaps Mycroft had dropped a few hints, certain that Sherlock was never going to have that conversation? Then again, what more information would he have even had about Sherlock's romantic exploits, or lack thereof? _Labels are so idiotic_. "Victor wasn't interested in being more than that."

"Oh. So I was right. Mother's instincts, you see. Though we weren't sure for a long time if you were interested at all in finding someone. There are people like that, you know. Asexual," Violet informs him.

"Yes, mother, I am well aware," he says with an eye roll. "And I don't think it automatically means that they don't want a partner at all." He's hardly interested in educating his old-fashioned mother about such things.

"Did you know George is the only man I ever dated?"

Sherlock is surprised — and not surprised. He tends to assume most people go through several partners before settling down with someone, but Violet Holmes hardly fits the description of 'most people'.

His mother smiles at him sunnily. "When you meet the right person, you just _know_. Come along now, we've only got ten minutes until the opening. I'm sure you still have to tune and all."

  
_____________  
  


  
On the drive back from Walstead House, Violet takes a detour to the Sainsbury's on Wivelsfield Road. Sherlock refuses to come in with her but agrees to meet her at the cashier section to help her carry things after she's done. She doesn't argue, doesn't ask him questions about why he won't do something as simple as keeping her company in an environment that is tailor-designed to get on his nerves by irritating all of his senses. _Some things truly have changed, haven't they?_ he wonders after being left alone in the car.

He texts John before remembering that he's probably at the dinner with his friends. _Our friends? John's friends?_ He recalls what Violet had said about her and George's social circles. Sherlock wonders if Edgar qualifies as a friend he has gained on his own. No, he's an employee, even if he has sometimes shared personal details with Sherlock. Some people do that at work, which has always struck him as odd.

What about Mycroft? No, he's duty-bound by blood to tolerate Sherlock, not a genuine friend

What about Marie? Sherlock has never interacted with her outside of the hospital. They have tea sometimes between patients. They are co-workers.

Is Lestrade a friend? Sherlock had confided in him once, and he had come to visit and helped John. He seems to care about them both beyond his role as Sherlock's senior and John's administrative colleague. Yes, Lestrade might qualify, but Sherlock hadn't _befriended_ him — the man had been forced to deal with him as a trainee. It was only later that he seemed to decide that Sherlock was someone whose company he found acceptable.

 _I don't have proper friends. I've only got the one._ Best friend, husband, confidante, trusted colleague: John is all these things for him. Sherlock doesn't feel any acute need for anyone else, and he can appreciate Violet's description of it being convenient to find ways to socialise one can regulate in quantity. Sherlock wouldn't want to invite people into their home because who knows when they might leave? It's better to go visit other people and or to go to a public venue. John enjoys all kinds of socialising, though, and Sherlock wants to give him chances to do that even though it sometimes involves going places as a couple.

Sherlock had looked forward to Sandhurst, they both did, but for Sherlock, the allure is based on seeing John in that environment, not anybody else they might encounter. John, however, would have likely enjoyed catching up with his service mates.

Sherlock is startled and nearly drops the phone when there's an incoming video call from John. He holds the phone up and presses the green receiver.

"Hello, handsome!" John greets. "I thought I recognised the suit from the picture Violet sent me of you playing."

Sherlock scrutinises the scenery behind his husband. "Are you still at home?"

"Leaving in thirty minutes. Weird to put on a suit for the first time in a month. I reckon I've dropped a few pounds."

"I could reserve a joint tailor appointment."

"You too, huh? Find any nice treats at the market?"

"I bought some local honey I'm bringing home. We had some beverages, sandwiches and mince pies at the venue."

"What did you play?"

"A section of Vivaldi and a French baroque piece."

"And you stayed at the market after?"

"You know my mother; she had to make the rounds."

After the opening ceremony, Sherlock had soon grown tired of trailing after his mother and being introduced to people. To his surprise, they kept mentioning the documentary he'd been in, and eventually he'd asked Violet if she'd told the entire village to watch the reruns. She'd laughed and said she had merely mentioned it 'to a few people'.

All peopled out, Sherlock had escaped to the footpaths and winter-dormant gardens of the estate and passed a couple of hours exploring the sprawling grounds. He'd found George in the small shop on the grounds buying a few packets of seeds and other gardening supplies. He wasn't coming home in the car but walking back to the village with some acquaintances; they were headed to a pub. It appears that Sherlock's visit is of much less interest to his father than Violet had made it sound. When he'd underwent cancer treatment, he'd stayed with John and Sherlock in London, and the latter had enjoyed the chance to spend time with his father without Violet's constant presence. Violet had been the one to invite him here this weekend, and it must be entirely normal that George should have his own plans for the weekend. Something about it still bothers Sherlock. He doesn't know what he'd expected of his Dad, if anything. _They thought I wasn't even coming_ ; he had reminded himself of this in the shop while watching George pay for the purchases. Sherlock had then stuck his hands in his pockets and went to find Violet.

"What time are you getting home? Should I expect you to lunch?" John says hopefully.

"I'm not sure. I'll need a ride; there's a Southern Railways strike."

"Yeah, sure, I'm up for it," John promises.

"No, I… Mummy promised to drive me."

"Oh?" John sounds surprised.

"I don't like this," Sherlock says, and surprises himself. "Small talk. Not having an agenda for a phone call. I don't know what you expect of me."

"I just like hearing your voice," John suggests, "and seeing you. This is just me, not some dinner party from hell where you have to behave yourself. And you do. You've never not… well, tried your best," John admits.

"In some ways, a dinner party would be preferable to trying to decipher relationship expectations."

He realises how bad this sounds only after the words have come out.

John takes a moment to go through several expressions. "Well, I'm sorry if––" he starts in a prickly tone, then exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe you didn't mean that to be so… um––"

"No, I assure you I didn't!" Sherlock tells him urgently, pleading with his eyes through the slightly grainy connection that John would believe him. "Of course, I don't prefer some dinner party to your company. I would choose you over any occasion anywhere, always."

John's features shift into a relieved smile. "That's better."

"You know I loathe dinner parties. But I like having dinner with you. And I like talking to you, but my enjoyment of it can easily be ruined by not knowing what you want of me."

"That's fine," John promises. "You think I have some master plan, a script in my head when I call you? Think of this as just the two of us, hanging out, remotely."

"I don't know what that means."

John laughs. "I love you, you impossible man."

Sherlock now spots Violet standing just outside the store with a cart full of shopping bags. "I need to go. I love you, John."

  
  
______________

John had been right in one thing: the change in surroundings provides enough distraction that Sherlock can almost pretend something in the back of his mind isn't dragging things down like a trawler scouring the darker layers of his psyche. If he busies himself with being a house guest, his brain finds it harder to scare up things which he'd then have to waste energy trying to expel.

He takes Natch for a walk just before sunset, then gives his mother a hand in the kitchen with dinner. He finds out that George will be returning for the meal from the pub, after all, instead of being out all evening.

"Earl from down the lane has his birthday today," Violet explains, "your father was wondering how long he'd need to stay to be polite. We were both looking forward to seeing you."

Sherlock now feels a bit guilty for his earlier thoughts about his father not being particularly interested in his company. It's the past intruding once again: as a child, Violet had not often provided very good explanations as to why George wasn't home on a particular evening or weekend. As Sherlock got older, he began to understand how much time and travelling to build up the business that allowed early retirement and guaranteed a comfortable lifestyle with expensive schools for two children had required. Still, the younger he'd been, the harder it had felt to understand why George, even when he was at home, seemed to focus on Mycroft and left Sherlock to Mummy to look after. He suspects his parents may have decided that, since he was getting so much of her attention, George should make an effort to award Mycroft the same.

It's just that they never explained any of this to Sherlock.

Sometimes he would have wanted nothing more than to disappear off with the other Holmes men on a walk or some other outing where his behaviour wouldn't have been the focus of everything. Mycroft and George are very alike: calm, analytical, socially adaptive even though George cultivates friendships and Mycroft, industrially inclined in his motivations, seems to consider them a waste of time. It would be hardly surprising that George might like the son better who was more similar to him. Nobody has ever understood Sherlock much, have they, save for a psychotherapist who's paid to like him? John loves him, but does he _understand_ Sherlock?

 _He tries, bless him_. Sherlock picks up the last potato to peel from the bowl.

"Don't forget to rinse them," Violet points out.

"Oddly enough, I don't intend to eat the dirt that was on them, no."

"You know you can get so distracted."

"I can _see_ the dirt."

"Your father can open the door of a fully stocked fridge and declare there's no food in the house. If you've inherited his powers of non-observation––"

Sherlock snorts. "I assure you I can manage a few potatoes. It's hardly brain surgery."

Violet laughs, and Sherlock is startled by it. For the duration of his life, her micromanagement has always led to arguments when he finds it insulting to his intellect and lets her hear it. Now, something almost resembling self-awareness has crept into the way Violet feels compelled to supervise what he does. She has even begun to back away before needing to resort to spluttering self-defence attempts consisting of declaring that she's only thinking of his best. He doesn't feel quite as threatened by her anymore. Against the backdrop of their hideous past relationship, that is quite something. Perhaps one day he might even admit to the two of them sharing a trait: the impulse to control things that make him uneasy by trying to manage every detail, especially those that rely on the actions of others. Pichler has called him out on that many times; the latest was when they'd discussed his new suit before the Sandhurst trip that never happened. The suit hadn't looked too shabby today, and the looser fit had allowed him to slip a vest John had left behind underneath his dress shirt because he'd suspected it might be cold in the country house. He'd been right.

He rinses the potatoes and lowers them into the water in the kettle waiting on the stove, careful not to splash water. His reward is a mince pie with clotted cream.

  
_____________

Sherlock is quiet through the dinner, listening to his parents' conversation and answering occasional questions.

The day has been tiring in a good way. The market opening had been Violet's show, not his, so he didn't have to care what people there thought of him. Somehow, it hadn't even occurred to worry about what nitpickery Violet might come up with concerning how he conducted himself.

George takes Natch out while Violet and Sherlock watch the evening news. Sherlock misses half of it because he's reading on his tablet an online-first version of an article he'd helped John write. It's the first research article John has to his name, so Sherlock texts him the link and his congratulations. John doesn't have a curated system of tracking new journal articles like he does, so he may not have spotted it yet. Sherlock is uncertain how much use his advice and editing have been for John in this endeavour, but it feels good to have one area in which he could be useful to his husband. _Just one_ , he thinks with a sigh.

John replies by saying he'd be having champagne if they had any in the house. Sherlock's hand hovers on the virtual keyboard, and suddenly he can't come up with anything to say. The article seems to have suddenly derailed the false calm he had kept up all day. He also should have declined the finger of whisky George had offered after dinner. Sherlock doesn't particularly enjoy whisky, but George has often skipped him altogether in such offerings, making him inclined to say yes tonight. He doesn't have much tolerance for alcohol — or its effects on people. He gets tipsy on very little, hates that feeling of not thinking clearly and, even after just a couple of doses, when the alcohol level in his blood sinks, his mood follows suit.

The news has ended, and Violet starts clicking through the channels. "Would you––" she starts.

"I'm for bed," Sherlock says quickly and unfolds himself from the armchair, tablet in hand. "Say goodnight to Dad."

"It's only a bit past nine," Violet points out.

"You know how I get if I have to deal with too many people in a day."

"It's just us, now, dear," Violet points out, looking concerned. "But if you're tired, then of course––"

 _I don't have to ask your permission_ , he almost snaps, but pinches his mouth shut and jogs upstairs. Before, he would have said it, lingered to have an argument he couldn't win. This should be a triumph — not letting Violet get under his skin and her not overstepping — but this hard-earned victory is being washed-out because he'd needed to escape the sitting room before getting emotional.

If he's honest with himself, that article is a slap in the face. It's like all those occasions when other students pretended to be nice to him just so they could copy his work or trick him into doing it for them. He saw through those attempts, mostly, but it was still mortifying that they thought so little of him. That they thought he was so deprived of friendship that by prostituting morsels of it he'd eat from their hand. He knows this has nothing to do with John, nothing at all, but it's all coiling together in his head, the past and the present, hiding the future from view like clouds drifting forth to conceal the moon.

 _This is how it's always going to be like_ , he thinks, sitting on his old bed with his fingernails digging hard into his palms. It's a cruel joke from the universe that this house, one he had spent years hoping to escape, is the only place where he wouldn't really need to conceal his defects because they've all been out in the open since he was small.

 _People will always be nice to John because of who he is and pretend to be nice to me when John is around_. _Why would he–––_

He breathes out, and the sound of it in the quiet room is a ragged, shapeless, angry thing. Joanna Pichler would tell him he's stuck on a loop again. A harmful one. No matter how much time and thought he wastes on this, nothing will change.

 _I don't care_ , he tries on for size once again. _I don't care what some idiots think about me_. _It's just that John shouldn't have to pay the same price, should he? He's done nothing wrong._

He discards his trousers on the chair by the desk, crawls under the duvet and bedspread in his socks, underwear and dress shirt. He wants to text John, but what would he say? He doesn't know what he wants or needs, save for someone to remove his brain so he wouldn't have to think anymore. He has no right to ask John for anything more.

It's probably good that he's in Sussex and not in London, where he could have put on his coat and went to find Wiggins.

For the next few hours, he tosses and turns, no longer even attempting to push back the accusing thoughts he's kept at bay all day. They roam freely in the recesses of his mind now, drifting through his Mind Palace like ghosts. They know everything about him, and there is no comfort in being honest to himself.

People lie to themselves all the time to feel better about their lives, but Sherlock has always had little skill in doing that.

  
  



	15. Burden of Proof

The need to visit the loo drives Sherlock out of bed after one in the morning. Afraid that the rattling of the old plumbing might wake his parents if he used the small one upstairs which he'd once shared with Mycroft, he wraps a worn bathrobe around his form and goes downstairs. Anxiety is twisting the pit of his stomach, making the acids there churn as though trying to scour a sore into the lining.

He can't keep still, so he hardly wants to go back to bed after relieving himself. His hands shake, and he wants to hold something because he doesn't know how else to occupy them. When he arrives in the kitchen, Natch's head lifts from on top of his paws. The old dog is sleeping in his sheepskin-covered, raised dog bed by the back door close to a radiator.

Sherlock doesn't turn on the lights; the fairy lights hanging from the curtain poles are just bright enough to keep him from bumping into furniture. He runs a glass of water from the tap but hesitates in drinking any of it, worried he'll get even more nauseous.

Natch's nails click on the stone-tiled floor as he makes his way to Sherlock, slow and arthritic as he always is after getting out of bed. Sherlock carefully puts the glass on the counter and kneels on the cold stone tiles to give him a scratch behind the ears. The feeling of the coarse hairs between his fingers is the first calming thing he's found all night. Something about it makes the anxiety give way to a crushing sense of defeat, and he gathers the dog into his arms just as the tears begin to fall. He gets a few licks to his chin from the canine, who seems to pick up on something strange going on. He stays still in Sherlock's hold as though waiting for something.

Sherlock buries his face in the dog's soft neck fur and tries to breathe, rocking back on his heels so he can settle into sitting on the floor, back against the cabinets below the sink. All the times he's done something as pitiful as this at Doctor Pichler's office — let his emotions get the better of him — it has made him feel better. Now, it won't stop, and he feels as though he's watching himself from afar, confused why this is even happening. It's a malignant sort of calm that takes over when he admits to himself he's lost control.

"Is someone there? William?"

He nearly shoves Natch away in shock when he hears the words. It's Violet, standing in the doorway in a floral dressing gown and slippers. She probably can't see much of him since he's concealed behind the kitchen island in the dark. He lets go of Natch who scurries to Violet, excited that more people are up. He drags himself up and reaches for the glass of water on the counter. He might throw up if he tries to drink it, but he needs an excuse to be here in the middle of the night.

"Sherlock?" Violet asks and turns on the lights.

"Too bright," he complains and sips from the glass barely enough to wet his lips.

She turns off the ceiling light, leaving on the small, round lights above the counter and stove. It makes Sherlock feels as though he's on a stage with the spotlight directed right at him.

"I thought I heard something and came to check if Natch was alright. I left a pitcher and a glass in your room earlier," she points out.

"I didn't notice," he replies. His tone is resigned, disinterested, a bit nasal. _Just send her away_ , he begs the universe.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

The game is up. _She knows me too well. Better than anyone, perhaps_. At least she's had the longest exposure.

He puts the glass in the sink and turns, leaning against the counter. He looks down at Natch, who's wagging at his feet, and sniffs because his nose is congested and threatens to drip. His head is pounding; that always happens when he's been crying.

"Come sit down," Violet says after studying the sight of him for a moment. "Tea?"

He shakes his head. Other people find solace in such rituals, and when only mildly upset, he's not immune to the calming effects to a warm mug he can wrap his fingers around, but it wouldn't work now.

"Is something the matter? Is John alright?" Violet asks, confounded.

"He's fine. He's always fine."

"Are you still worried about him? You said he's going back to work on Monday?"

"Yes." Sherlock tries to cover his bare knees with the too-small bathrobe. It leaves his shins bare, and he's shivering from cold and… other things.

Violet notices and grabs a throw someone has left hanging on the back of one chair and offers it. "You'll catch your death. Where are your pyjamas? Didn't you bring any? Your father has a pair he's not used yet, and I could––"

"No, thank you." Sherlock drapes the woollen throw on his lap. It doesn't help much.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

There's something about the way she has phrased the question that gives him pause. She is one of the few people who understands how difficult it is for him to turn feelings into words, to get them to make sense to other people. Even John would just demand to know why he's upset, not inquire whether he's in a state where he could attempt to communicate. _Her wording is mostly likely accidental_ , he reminds himself. _Don't give her too much credit after decades of torment._

She's taken the chair next to him instead of opposite and places her hand on his shoulder. Usually such things bother him, make him want to shake off the contact like a dog would want to evict a fly sitting on its back fur but now, he feels so rotten that he's indifferent to it, barely even notices. It's rare that he should feel so out of himself, so withdrawn from the world.

"You said John thought you could use some time away from home," Violet says. "What did he mean? Has it been hard on you, this surgery of his?"

"I'm… I'm not a very good husband," Sherlock explains, but his expression crumples halfway through the sentence just as his voice breaks. He buries his face in his palms, elbows on the table. "I'm not good at any of it," he manages to add, the words strained and wet as they are gasped out between sobs.

Violet is silent for a moment, her palm pressed gently against his shoulder blade. "You've managed for years and years and we've seen how great the two of you are together. I suppose you and I are both the more complicated halves in our marriages. But darling, we _manage_ , don't we?"

The need to correct her misguided view helps Sherlock calm down just enough to reply. "Speak for yourself. Everyone always insists that marriages are about talking, but do people really do that? You and dad never talk about things, important things, emotional things, do you? I can't imagine him doing that. So that can't be the reason it works or doesn't. It must mean that I'm not just cut out for it, the rest of it, I mean, for… _people_ ," he spits out the word like a cherry pit.

"There are other ways to communicate how you feel. It's always been important for your father to provide for us, to look after the house and the garden, and that's his way of saying we're very important. I don't find it easy to speak to him about many things, but I sense that he understands that about me. We're not a modern couple like you and John who show affection so openly." Her words may be amicable, but there is an undertone that isn't quite bitter but… envious?

"I don't know why John would bother with me. Why he doesn't see how he could have chosen someone less difficult."

"Because he loves you, of course! How could John not love someone I also love dearly?"

"You were obligated by law to do that, he isn't. I'm worse than useless to him."

"Marriage is not an exchange of favours or something in which you must match in skill. In a good marriage, you complement each other, make each other better. John once told me he feels privileged to look after you, and that he's never felt like that in a relationship before. But he also made the point many times that it's not about the sort of looking after a parent does. He has always made that very clear that he doesn't see himself in that role."

"John wants to have friends, to have a social life. I just make that difficult for him."

Violet sighs. "Well, I can certainly relate to that."

"How did you… how did you settle all that with Dad, then? Why would he stay? How would he know when you need him for something? How do you know how to help him with anything?"

"I believe every couple makes compromises about things they want and what they're comfortable with. You can't just dwell on what's difficult or what you can't have — you have to see the positive side."

The glance Sherlock gives her is sceptical. She hasn't been much a champion of seeing any of his positive sides through the years, just his shortcomings.

"I have asked that question myself sometimes — why me. Why George would choose to work so hard for a family that had its challenges. He did it because he wanted to, and he told me once that he found it insulting when I questioned his motives."

"But if you and Dad didn't talk about things… how does he know what _you_ want, or vice versa?"

"You learn how to read the people close to you, even if you're not that good at understanding people outside the family. I've noticed that you read John very well: you pick up on his moods and that has always surprised me; it's not something I expected because I was told by all the doctors that you would never learn to understand or recognise such things. It appears that some of those ideas were rather old-fashioned. Clearly, you have more talent in that sort of thing that anyone expected when you were a boy, but perhaps what is needed is that you must be very fond and familiar with someone in order to be able to do it. You love John and show him that in your own way, and I can promise you he sees and appreciates it. He's not a very verbal man, either, when it comes to his feelings, now is he?"

"I'm just tired of everything. Of needing help. Of things always being so bloody difficult. Things other people can manage."

"And many people would say the same about things which you manage effortlessly. You have proven many of my assumptions wrong when it comes to your and John's relationship and your ability to maintain it. The thing I most worried about––" Violet takes a pause, "––what I most _feared_ about your future, even more than I feared that someone might take advantage of you and treat you badly, was that you'd be lonely. As lonely as you were as a boy, and I didn't think there was much I could do about that because people are so cruel and prejudiced. I thought you might be best off staying close to family because of that, and that's why I wanted you to fit in, to learn things that would help with not standing out so much. But… you don't need to do those things, because you knew what you wanted, who you wanted to be. You have John, dear, and clearly, he's not going anywhere."

"I'm just tired of failing. You knew I would. You told me I shouldn't pursue relationships."

Violet purses her lips and looks at her hands. "When you were a boy––"

He pulls the throw from his lap up to his face, groaning in complaint.

"Please, Wi–– _Sherlock_ , hear me out. When you were a child, I constantly felt like I was failing, doing things wrong. But I couldn't quit. I _wouldn't_ quit, because you and Mikey are the most important thing in my entire life and I couldn't stop trying, could I? Only an idiot wouldn't see that John is the most important person in your life, so you wouldn't forgive yourself if you gave up on trying to be his husband. And I don't think you have been doing badly at all. In fact, you have surprised your father and I, and perhaps Mikey, too — not just because you got married but because you've stuck with that decision and work very hard to be happy with John. That's more than Mikey's managed, you know. I pity the woman who would try to wiggle their way into his daily routines," Violet says with a small smile, "though God knows it would do him a world of good."

"You just want John to stick around because you think he's taken over from you. That I just need someone around to _help me_ and _sort me out_."

"Right now, it seems you're upset because you're not there helping _him_ , so it must go both ways. He helps you, but that's what people do in a marriage. I… things I said about John in the beginning and things I said about that Victor were all because it worried me you might latch onto a person who wouldn't treat you right. Victor obviously didn't. But John is not your caregiver, that much is obvious to me, because you haven't needed a caregiver for many years, Sherlock."

"That's not what you told me when I nearly dropped out of Cambridge."

"Believe me when I tell you it spares you of much grief, not knowing what it feels like to watch your child go through something like that. All I ever wanted was to keep you safe, to spare you from how difficult I knew your life would be. But you didn't want that — didn't want easy and safe. I just… I worry so tremendously about you, still, though I try not to."

"If John knew everything… if he knew that I nearly failed at medical school and that I ended up at Burgess Hill, I don't know what he'd think of me. If he knew everything, he wouldn't expect me to be in a relationship. He wouldn't expect me to manage. And why would he want to be married to someone like that?"

Violet frowns. "What do you mean, _'if he knew'_? John knows about that year when you spent some time at the psychiatric ward."

Sherlock's eyes go wide, and he stares at her, fury rising. "What? You _told_ him?! How _dare you––_ "

Violet looks defensive. "I didn't just go out and tell him, if that's what you think! He _asked_ me about it, once. We were discussing his medical school years, and he asked what it had been like for you. He did it first in a very roundabout way, but eventually, he asked me what happened during your time at Cambridge. He'd heard bits from you, vague allusions to something having gone wrong, and then he met that awful Sebastian Wilkes at the conference and that's what must've made him so curious. I tried to tell him to ask you, but he just said he doubted you'd ever tell him the whole story."

Sherlock crosses his arms. "And, of course, you had no hesitation about dishing out the salient details."

"It was so awful, what happened — any young man would have been terribly affected by it, being bullied so terribly! I wish you wouldn't think so ill of me; you seem to assume that I want to embarrass you."

"For that to change, you'd need to stop being such a––." He snaps his mouth shut momentarily, glaring daggers at her. "You do often embarrass me; you tell people the most mortifying things about me because _you_ want pity and attention! As though _you_ were the one who's suffered the worst! If you think anything you went through could be worse than having someone like you for a mother, then you're deluded!"

He expects her to explode, to march out or to lecture him about how everything she's done has been for him and how hard she's work and how unfair and ungrateful and childish and cruel he's being.

Instead, she says nothing, just draws a defeated breath.

He studies her features, confounded. Where are the crocodile tears, the narcissistic indignation over being treated so badly by a son she pretends to worship but considers useless? Her lack of reaction makes him regret those words he had longed to say to her for years.

"I can't change the past, Sherlock, and it seems I can't change that this is how you feel about me and about our family. I can just try to do things better. Do them the way you'd want me to. I never knew what you wanted because you didn't know how to tell me. I never knew what was good for you. I got told so many things, some of them contradictory, but I had to believe that following some of that advice would be good because it was all I had. If they were all wrong when neither of us knew what to do with you, then what would that have left me with? You have your own answers, now. You have found a therapist you obviously respect more than you do me. I'm sorry that George and I are what you had, but I can't change that."

Sherlock is blinking, unable to even start processing what he's just heard.

Violet Holmes has never explained herself to him like this, has never signalled that it's in any way important for him to understand why things in their joint lives have gone the way they have.

_It feels good to be entitled to an explanation._

The things she has told him today don't feel like a revelation, but they are _something_. It seems to matter to her what he thinks and what he feels, even if she relegates much of the blame to the professionals whose advice she had been following.

All he had wanted for years was to get away from her, to escape the suffocation of a home where he was always thought of as defective and inferior. So why had he not been nervous to come here tonight? Perhaps a part of him truly feels like there is solace in the predictable scepticism of Violet Holmes? That she might confirm his fears of not being cut out for marriage, for being the equal and supportive partner to someone?

Instead, she is now telling him… what? That he shouldn't give up? That he's done well? _Who are you and what the hell have you done to my mother?!_

"Are you still seeing Doctor Pichler?" Violet asks.

He nods.

"Does she know that you're… have you spoken with her about all this?"

He lets his eyes drift closed for a moment, resignation taking over again. "Yes."

"What about John?"

"He doesn't deserve to be burdened with my problems."

"He'd be angry at you for saying that." Violet's tone is startlingly determined. "Your father and John, they've chosen us just as we've chosen them. Nobody's perfect, and that includes the two of them. But we love them dearly, don't they? You're upset because you love John, but my darling, you have to accept that he loves you back. We don't have a right to question why they've chosen us. That's not how any of this works. I wondered many times why George would choose me — believe me, there were other suitors back in the day. You can't reason or calculate or deduce why that sort of love happens — I have tried, believe me. At some point, to avoid going mad as a March hare with just the sorts of worries you seem to be having, you have to accept that this person chose you and trust it. Trust what you have. Because if you don't, you're throwing away so many good years. Do you think I felt like a good wife when the two of you were small? Or a good mother? I didn't have enough time in a day for either. All we can do is try our best to manage, and it has to be enough. George is still here. John is going to be right there, too, thirty years from now, because he loves you. It's as simple as that."

"People dislike me and don't understand why John would bother with me."

Violet rises from her chair and goes to the sink. "We'll be having that tea, after all." She fills the kettle. George always uses the electric version while she favours the traditional way. "Why do you think your father mostly spends time with his friends without me?"

"I assume none of them bring their wives. That it's just _'between blokes_ ' or whatever, like John says." That excludes Sherlock because he is most decidedly not _'one of the blokes'_. John knows that full well and still seems to feel the need to drag Sherlock to spend time socially with people he has no interest in.

"It's all well and good to say that it doesn't matter what they think," Violet muses, turning on the gas and lighting the hob. "I've thought of it as learning to pick my battles. I now have the sort of social life I find acceptable, and George spends time with his friends occasionally. I don't have to worry about their opinion of me. It's a good compromise. He needed such things when the two of you were little, while I was too exhausted to put in the effort to pretend I could tolerate socialising."

"Isn't he disappointed with you?"

"If he is, he never says." Violet shrugs. "No marriage is perfect, but the best way to ruin it is to pick every little thing apart. Believe me, I have learned that the hard way. Disappointment goes both ways in this house. Yes, he put bread on the table, but I did often wish he would have _sat_ around the table more."

Silence reigns, save for Natch's fussing, until Violet brings two mugs of tea to the table with milk.

Sherlock tastes his, then makes a face. "I hate chamomile. It's not even _tea_."

"It's the middle of the night; I don't want to stay up because I've had the proper sort."

Sherlock ingests a mouthful, sceptical that it will do anything to help him rest, but the warmth of it is calming. Perhaps his mother's words are a part of that effect, but he's reluctant still to reward her with such credit.

_If someone is willing to be married to Violet Holmes for so many years, maybe I have hope to be with John._


	16. Occam's Razor

During the drive back to London, Violet takes care of conversation. As usual, she manages to cover a smattering of village gossip, Mycroft's career triumphs, and pointless things George has been doing in the garden. Sherlock listens with barely half an ear; bubbles of anxiety float to the surface with each spire and tower of London that becomes visible on the horizon.

 _It's nothing new,_ he tries to tell himself. _Nothing has changed: John is still who he is, and I am still me._ But that is truly the core of the problem, isn’t it? No amount of apologising or therapy or sickening empathy or understanding or _pity_ from John can erase the fact that they'll never be equals in this marriage. Talking to his mother had temporarily eased his worries, and he tries to summon back his precarious equilibrium by clinging to the recent revelation that he's not the only member of his family who has struggled to function in a relationship with a normal person.

After they make the miraculous find of a free parking spot around the corner from 221 Baker Street, he needs to be prompted twice to get out of the car. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and holds them out to Violet wordlessly, aware of the concerned looks she’s shooting his way as she unlocks the door, aware of each minute that passes without him saying a word, aware of every step that brings him closer to John. She opens the door and proceeds him up the stairs, blessedly saying nothing of the way he’s trailing behind her like a chastised schoolboy.

They find John on the sofa, television on to some game show which momentarily catches Sherlock's attention. It's a high-sum question, supposedly difficult, but he knows the answer. He doesn't say it, because he suspects blurting out such a thing before a customary greeting might be one of those social rules people like Violet so appreciate.

 _Why am I still policing my behaviour in her presence?_ he suddenly wonders. "James Chadwick in 1932," he announces just as John is rising from the sofa.

John's head whips towards the television. The person competing for the prize gets their answer wrong; Ernest Rutherford did not receive the Nobel prize for discovering the neutron. John chuckles, coming to the door to help Violet out of her coat after giving her a peck on the cheek. "Hi, you two. How was traffic?" he asks.

"Not too terrible," Violet answers.

Sherlock, eyes still on the TV screen, also gets a kiss from John — on the lips.

"Antimony," Sherlock says, and is startled by his own voice. The idiot on television gets this question wrong, too. Why the hell have they picked chemistry as their category if they don't know anything about it? _Why are people so ignorant?_

He realises he's still got his coat on. John's brow is raised, and he has a slight smile that's likely caused by amusement over something Sherlock has or hasn't done or said.

"Hello, John," Sherlock says. "Why are you watching this drivel?"

John shrugs and follows Violet into the kitchen. Perhaps she'd performed some fussy greeting to his son-in-law before John had risen from the sofa; Sherlock's attention had been elsewhere, everywhere and nowhere. The chemical properties of antimony echo in his head, keeping time with the twisting of his stomach as he lingers in the kitchen quietly while John and Violet chat about this and that. Violet has brought some pudding — an apple crumble — and had picked up a container of vanilla ice cream on their way.

Violet sets three places by the kitchen table, and Sherlock flops down into one of the chairs, tempted to dig out his phone and lose himself in his emails. He refrains but only barely, aware that John would probably consider that impolite.

They settle down to eat.

"It's so good seeing you're on the mend," Violet tells John while dabbing her lips primly with a piece from the kitchen roll John has put on the table. "I'll be off, now. I believe George needs the car later today and I don't want to keep him waiting."

"It was good of you to––" John starts, then coughs a bit and winces. "Yeah," he adds, sounding unsure. "Still pulls a bit sometimes if I eat too fast."

He's stolen a few glances at Sherlock while they ate. Sherlock doesn't know how to interpret them. _John knows_ , he reminds himself. _He knows things are not… alright, and he must be wondering how the weekend went._

John will want to talk. Sherlock realises he doesn't want his mother to leave him here with his husband because of that, and that realisation is so alarming that he pushes his pudding bowl away, stunned and wide-eyed.

Then, he gets angry. So angry he's shaking with it by the time the door closes downstairs, and John has put the dishes in the sink and turned to look at him.

John looks gentle. Tired. Kind. Then, his shoulders rise a bit and his posture changes, and Sherlock imagines it's an involuntary reaction to the anger John had read on his features. John swallows meticulously, exhales as if to conceal pain or unease. "Ready to tell me what's going on, then? You've barely said a word after you got home. Have I done something, said something wrong? You sounded okay on the phone and in your texts. I thought a weekend away would do you a world of good. Was I wrong?"

"What––" Sherlock's voice shakes a bit, and he hides his trembling hands in his trouser pockets and leans a bit forward against the back of the chair. _Why does failure always have to be such a full-body experience?_ "––what makes you think you did something? You _never_ do anything wrong."

"What's that supposed to mean? Of course, I say or do the wrong thing sometimes, everybody does. I just have no idea right now what that is, and I have to admit I'm sometimes too bloody knackered to play guessing games."

"I can't talk to you. I can't. But I have to. I need to. Need to learn, I mean."

John pulls out a chair and sits, his hands folded in his lap, his eyebrows drawn together. Sherlock remains standing, squeezing the edges of the chair back with his knuckles while. He loathes the frustrated concern emanating from John — why is it that the only exception to his blindness to other people's emotions is their disappointment in him?

 _Extended exposure sensitises. Practice makes perfect, especially in failure_.

"I'm not… not alright. And I needed _her_ to tell you."

"Violet?"

Shake of his head.

"Joanna? Right… she said you asked her to do that."

"I had to. I didn't ask, she offered. I hate that."

"You hate that she was being helpful?"

"I don't want help."

"I know you don't." John now looks ready to abandon the conversation. His eyes keep shifting towards the sofa. He wants out of this, wants out of trying to decipher what his defective spouse is trying to cough up but has no skills to manage.

"I'll let you calm down."

" _I AM CALM!_ " Sherlock grits out forcefully, only realising the paradox in his statement after the fact.

John is out of his chair, but now he's approaching Sherlock, whose skin crawls from the idea of physical contact right now. "Don't," he pleads, and John's steps come to a halt.

"I don't know what you need from me right now," John says after the silence stretches.

"I can't explain things, I can't talk, _I can't say these things_ , but I need you to listen," Sherlock pleads. His shoulders slump. The fight is draining out of him. "I just need you to _see_."

"See what? Sherlock, please… I just, I _know_ it's hard, but can you… can you text me? Write something down? I can't help if you––"

"I don't want your help," Sherlock dismisses, voice breaking. "I just want you to see that I can't… I don't… I don’t know how to do any of this."

"Do what?"

"You expected me to be here, to be supportive. I don't know how. And I'm tired of needing other people to explain these things. I just… I–– I feel so alone," he says, shaking his head and blinking, fighting back tears. He had felt moderately calm this morning, but now…

"But you don't have to do anything in particular. I just needed the company after the surgery. That's all, I swear."

"But I can't _know that_! I never do, and nobody gets it, nobody _sees_ how hard it is when you don't even know what you don't know, what you can't read on other people."

"So you're… is this about therapy?"

"Why would it be about therapy?" _Honestly, John can be so thick. A proper idiot. We're both idiots, but in different ways. Incompatible ways?_

"I get it: you don't want to need that. You don't want to need help. You've achieved so much, but there are things which you can't change? And that gets to you sometimes? Am I getting warmer?"

"The fact that you're standing there, convalescent from surgery, having to explain to me things I can't recognise in myself is a case in point." Sherlock grits his teeth.

"I don't mind, Sherlock. I don't mind needing to take a bit more responsibility for certain things in this marriage. It's fine. We're fine."

"But I need _you!_ " Sherlock snaps. "I need you, especially when you need me, and that's _selfish_. You told me so yourself after Afghanistan."

John isn't really understanding him because he doesn't want to hear these things, wouldn't want to know how disgustingly self-centred the sense of being paralysed under the pressure makes Sherlock when he can't meet the expectations of others. He thinks Sherlock is having some sort of a _wobbly_ , an _episode_ , a _tantrum_ or whatever else his mother might call this. All his life, every time he's tried to use what little skill he has in trying to explain himself, he always gets pushed head-first into the cold water of invisibility. Of other people telling him it's not so bad, that there's help, that he shouldn't be so hard on himself.

John swallows. "No, Sherlock. That wasn't me giving you any kind of constructive feedback. That was me lashing out at you because you were there and I couldn't aim that anger at anything else. And it wasn't right. I’m so sorry about what happened back then, the way I was. I’ve said I was sorry about that, but if you need me to say it—"

Sherlock remembers Pichler's words about John needing to say these things for his own process, but they don't make Sherlock feel any better. "That doesn't change the fact that whenever you need support, I can't deliver."

"And that's where you're also wrong. If anything, you're an _overachiever_ when it comes to being there for me. You trip over yourself trying to be so bloody perfect that it puts _me_ to shame! You rack your brain about relationship stuff that doesn't even occur to me!"

"Because you can do all of it instinctively!"

"You think people generally know what their partners need all the time? That they always know how best to support or console them? I don't often know that about you."

"Well, people shouldn't be expected to cater to my oddities," Sherlock scoffs. "That just adds insult to injury when it comes to the burden you have to bear."

There's a pink tint on John's cheeks now, which Sherlock realises is anger. His fists have even clenched. This is unexpected.

" _Fuck_ that, Sherlock. You don't get to put me down for wanting to be married to you. I love you, and that's not a fucking character flaw. You insult both of us when you say that."

"I just fail by default. And I'm sick of it. Have you any idea how that feels?"

He wants the cocaine. He wants all of it. He wants never to have to go to work again. He wants to do away with the demands of marriage, therapy and other expectations he's been stupid enough to drag into his life.

John's lips part a bit — it's as if he's even trying to breathe as quietly as possible. Perhaps he feels that Sherlock is taking up all the space in this flat right now. Maybe he's been taking up all the space in this relationship, too, without realising.

"You care about me," John says quietly. "You do. That's not a question. I need you, and I don't have any problem admitting to that. But it seems like it's not the same for you."

"I _like_ being needed by you," Sherlock complains, hanging his head, "but I just don't know how, and that takes the joy out of it."

"And it's all fine," John promises. "Hasn't Pichler ever told you that it's hardly a symptom of being autistic to need things from a partner and feeling like you don't always know what they want from you?"

Sherlock huffs. Yes, she has told him this in many versions. Violet has, too. But it's hard to accept after the entire world has telegraphed at him for decades that not much can be expected from him in terms of interpersonal relationship skills.

"How do you think it makes me feel when you don't come to me when you're not alright? Makes me feel like shit, it does. Makes _me_ feel bloody self-centred and a failure that you were going through all this while I was sitting at home with a sore throat and you felt like you had no right to tell me stuff."

Sherlock goes to sit on the sofa and rubs his closed lids with his fingertips. His mind feels sluggish, his nerves now numb rather than raw. The anxiety is gone, and in its place just defeated confusion. The things John says contradict so many things in his head. Why is it so hard to accept them? They're the truth for John — why can't they be that for the both of them?

John joins him on the sofa, wraps an arm around his shoulder. "I know words like _help_ and _support_ are pretty loaded for you after, well, after having all that forced on you when you grew up. But I want to think it's different between us. That you could believe that I'm here because I want to be. That it's good for me, for us, when you don't keep me in the dark. It doesn't mean giving up or being defective if you accept help, but I know how hard it's to accept that."

"My mother is impossible, but they've stayed together."

"You're not impossible," John says, reaching forward hesitantly to tuck an errant curl behind Sherlock's ear.

It tickles, and he shudders, which makes John remove his hand and retreat towards the opposite end of the sofa. "Before, I just assumed there was some obscure reason why my father chose to stay, something I couldn't decipher. But I have been reliably informed that love can make people do such things."

"Whoever informed you is right," John says with a smile. He scoots closer. Sherlock doesn’t move, so John leans in, resting his head on his shoulder. "I love you," he mutters into the shoulder seam of his jacket before giving Sherlock a kiss on the side of his neck.

Instead of trying to placate him, instead of stupid promises he can't even make such as that everything will be alright, John has just gone and said _that_ , confirmed the one thing Sherlock just might be willing to change in his own thinking right now. It feels as though it breaks something in him, something that needed to break because _thi_ s, Sherlock wants. Wants those simple words. Wants to accept the explanation that John loves him, despite everything.

 _Occam's razor of love — is the simplest explanation really the right one?_ Sherlock wonders.

"What should I do?" John asks, "to help, I mean. With… what's been going on with you. Right now. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it."

"You can't do anything. Nobody can. I think I just need you to acknowledge that. But that… I try. I'm not very good at any of this, but that doesn't mean I don't think it's important."

"Alright," John says.

To Sherlock, instead of a promise, it sounds like what someone one might say at gunpoint. Then again, he doesn't really know how to read these things. He is still a live wire, and John is trying not to trip him.

"You are who you are, and this is hard. It's hard for me, too. For most people, I think," John muses chewing his bottom lip. He’s moved back over to the other side of the couch and Sherlock misses his steady warmth. "But don't ever think I can't see how hard you try all the time. And that's the whole point. Most of the time I can't even understand how I could be worth all that effort, but then I realise I just need to accept that for you, I am. We don't just make each other better people, Sherlock — we make each other want to try to _be_ better. And _you_ sometimes put _my_ pathetic efforts to shame."

Sherlock feels too drained to pick that statement apart, to test whether it's just empty placation.

"Can I touch you?" John asks. "I really want to. Because you look like you'd need–– well, I can't know what you need, but I just… that's what I'm seeing right now. I don't know a lot of the time if I've read you right, either. We really are even, Sherlock, at least when it comes to being clueless about what goes on our husbands' heads."

Sherlock's anger dissipating has left behind an absence. He feels shaky, out of sorts. Not enough and too much at the same time. He extends his hand towards John, mostly to test how he feels about the impending physical contact. To his surprise, he doesn't feel like retreating at the last moment — quite the opposite. He's anxious, but longs for comfort. This is new. For once, he doesn't feel walled off by his frustration and anxiety over assumed failure to communicate.

John's hand is a bit clammy but warm. Sherlock gives it a squeeze before slipping his fingers between John's.

"I know you want to be different and you're pissed off you can't be, but don't ever start believing that's something I want," John says, watching their joined hands. He stands, tugging Sherlock to his feet.

He allows himself to be led to the bedroom, and they end up spooning on the bed, his back against John's chest. A kiss is pressed to the crown of his curls, which must look a mess — he'd forgot to pack his hair products for Sussex and will have to do a lot of remedial styling this evening in preparation for work.

"Your heart's pounding," John points out and kisses the inside of his wrist. "Planning your escape?"

"No," Sherlock mutters and lets his eyes drift closed.

He realises his heart rate must be so elevated because he's realising he had only narrowly escaped making the grave mistake of rejecting the most important antidote to his anxiety: that John Watson will always keep him right.

______________

"So much of your life has been affected by the negative things others assume they can see when they look at you. Is it any wonder that seeing the positive others see when they look at you is a skill that has to be learned first before it can be deployed?" Joanna Pichler asks after Sherlock recounts the events of the weekend.

He expects her to deliver her usual praise which he then tends to silently dismiss as pathetic praise for something other people can manage without needing a therapist.

She doesn't. Instead, she says, "I don't have to tell you, do I, that you have made great strides of progress lately, even in the middle of a depressive episode?"

"You do usually lavish some supposedly therapeutic, trite praise for such things." He's come to expect it and admittedly, it feels good.

"In order for us to accept the love others want to give us, we have to accept ourselves and that we deserve that love. I could tell you how proud and overjoyed I am about the conversations you've had with your mother and John, but it's more important whether you feel that pride without my influence. Have these conversations changed the way you see your skills and role in your marriage?"

"John has presented some arguments I cannot dismiss entirely."

"Such as?"

"That he may also have occasional moments when he struggles with the same frustrations, and that many people share those experiences, regardless of whether they or their partners are ASD."

Sherlock assumes that such a thing as smugness is not really allowed for therapists but then again, he has no idea what else her face could be projecting right now than a rather relieved _I-told-you-so_. "You've made an excellent start in introducing more emotional dialogue into your marriage, Sherlock."

" _Start?!_ " Shouldn't that conversation be enough for at least a few years? John doesn't need constant reminders of such things, does he?

"It'll be easier every time, I promise."

Sherlock groans.

______________

A week later, he decides to heed Edgar's advice regarding getting out of the flat with John. John has returned to work but is still lacking energy to do much in the evenings and this brings forth some tension, but after seeing Dr Pichler two times in the past seven days, enough has shifted in Sherlock’s thinking that he no longer feels crushed by the pressure to deliver some magic words and a perfect cure for John's recovery-associated ennui. Sherlock has agreed to regular appointments with Pichler again until they can agree that things have begun to normalise. Things are already significantly _better_ , but Sherlock doesn't want to make a premature assumption of being past this dark period before a few months have passed. The topic of medication has not been brought up again, to his relief, and he hopes revisiting that topic will not be necessary.

The weather has turned sunny and warmer, so Sherlock suggests a walk that Tuesday evening. John admits readily to being a bit stir-crazy and accepts the invitation. Once in Regent's Park, Sherlock adjusts his pace to match John's still slightly slower-than-usual amble.

On their way back, as they come to the intersection of Baker Street and Marylebone and are passing the Underground station entrance, Sherlock spots a familiar figure loitering outside.

When he and John walk by, Wiggins nods a silent greeting to Sherlock.

A few steps on, John asks, “Who was that?”

“An acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance?” John repeats, frowning. “From where?”

“From… long ago,” Sherlock drawls.

“What does he do?” John’s head swivels around and his gaze follows Wiggins until the younger man disappears around a corner.

Sherlock notices the young man has new trainers _._ “He’s an entrepreneur.”

“And you met him where?”

“What’s with the third degree?”

“I could ask you the same about the secrecy.”

“He’s in pharma.”

“A drug rep?”

“Yes.” It’s best if John thinks that. After all, it's not _entirely_ untrue.

“That's a pretty casual dress code for a rep. What would a rep even be doing skulking around these parts?”

Sherlock shrugs. “He lives in the area.”

“Oh.” This seems to satisfy John, finally. He’s looking a bit winded, so Sherlock slows down, rambling on about things that occur to him as they close the distance towards home. He needs to distract John from further meditations on Wiggins.

By the time they reach their building and slip into the downstairs foyer, however, John is looking rather pale. He drops into the chair by the stairs, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

Sherlock goes to him, alarmed. Without asking, he reaches down to take John's hand, holding the wrist so he can take a pulse.

John snatches his hand away. "I'm alright. Just knackered. Why does removing a piece of me that is no bigger than a fifty pence piece do this? It just beggars belief."

Sherlock vacillates beside him, worry furrowing the gap between his eyebrows. John had told him about this expression, which Sherlock hadn't been aware of possessing in his repertoire. He'd argued that it was just his face, to which John had replied that yes, it was his face but it was doing a 'thing', Consequently, Sherlock had spent some time watching himself in the mirror to see what John was seeing, and to learn how to recognise the way it felt on his face. John is important to him, so he wants to learn how to communicate through this sort of physical expression, wants to be aware of how John interprets his facial antics.

Unfortunately, his husband has now closed his eyes again and can't see this attempt at conveying concern, so Sherlock says, "I don't remember you being this hard on yourself after the shoulder injury." 

"The two are not comparable. That's what makes this so frustrating. It shouldn't be happening. It's not fair; kids shrug this off in a couple of days."

"And we both know that a child's ability to recover is at least twice as fast as an adult's. You _know_ all this, John, and you can't force it to happen quicker."

"In theory. It's different when it's happening to you instead of just listening to a patient talking about it."

Sherlock can't hide his confusion. "You have prior experience of how slow recovery can be. It took months for your shoulder." _And the associated PTSD_ , Sherlock nearly says. Nearly.

"Thanks for that little reminder, as if I needed it right now."

Doctor Pichler had been helpful during one of their earlier sessions in helping Sherlock understand sarcasm and how it differs from irony — enough for him to know the meaning of John's comment.

Trying to find a way to express his concern, he can only revert to the truth. "I also know what it's like to recover from an injury. Twenty weeks in that metal monstrosity was enough to drive me to the edge. Give it time. That's what you used to say to me and, in hindsight, that statement was accurate. In this case, it should be a _lot_ less time."

John's attempt at a smile leaves a lot to be desired. His voice is still misbehaving; a bit nasal, and the way he pronounces his r's and s's is not his usual. "Pots and kettles; we both know doctors make crappy patients, and neither of us is an exception to that rule." He leans back in the chair. "Felt good to get some air, though."

Sherlock wonders if this is the right time to make a proposal. Last night, he'd spent hours researching options the internet until he found something that struck him as just right. "Weather won't last long; autumn's coming," he suggests.

John doesn't open his eyes. "That supposed to help cheer me up?"

"No, but maybe planning a holiday will. I've been thinking about our next destination."

John sighs. "The idea of being confined in a tin can for twelve hours to get to a place where you haven't been diving yet… right now that is about as unappealing as it gets. Airplanes harbour germs and the thought of subjecting my immune system to that assault is not appealing."

"Tonsillectomy does not cause immunocompromise."

"I know. But there's also the fact that when we get somewhere, there's no relaxing because you always get so… riled up before you actually get to the water for your first dive. It's like you're vibrating with nerves."

"Give me a little credit for once. I wasn't thinking of long-haul, and I am also _not_ proposing a diving trip. Early October is what I had in mind — something to look forward to. We could take a train down to the toe of Italy, stopping off overnight in Turin and then Rome before heading to Ravello on the Amalfi coast for the music festival. Good food, good wine, nice scenery, a classical concert or two. We could Airbnb a small house for a few days. The weather is still warm and sunny there in October, but the tourists will have gone home; it would be a chance to be _together_ for ten days. I could even be persuaded to attempt to relax according to _your_ definition of the word."

Almost afraid to breathe, Sherlock waits while John thinks all this through. He wants desperately to be right, to suggest the right thing, to make John happy. He wills himself to be patient and forces himself to stop jiggling the toes of his left foot and to stop fingering the buttons on the back of his coat.

"I still feel like shit every night after we get come from work and I have no exercise tolerance. That means I'm not in the best of moods in the evenings. Don't think I'm not aware of that, Sherlock. But it won't last forever. That does sound like it could give us both something to aim for. Yeah, it's a good idea," John finally decides, then rises to his feet. " _You_ , relaxing? This, I have to see."


	17. A Marriage Worth A Dry-Cleaning Bill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think Captain Watson would leave his poor husband completely without some uniformed attention, did you?

**Some days I feel somewhere else or somewhere in between**  
**Some days I don’t feel a thing at all**  
**Now, I’m pulling back the screen to let the future in**  
**The light comes flooding in**  
**_—Nothing But Thieves_**  
  
  
  
The evening breeze is chilly, but it's a fair price to pay for a table at the edge of a balcony overlooking the sea from high on the cliff side.

John slips his black corduroy jacket back on as they’re settling in their seats.

"Cold? We could request a table inside," Sherlock tells him and cranes his neck, preparing to signal a server.

John waves him off. "No, no, it's fine. Worth the view. Sorry I made us blow off your reservation at that Michelin star place. It just felt like a waste of money when I can't really enjoy the food to its fullest."

Though it's been nearly two months since the surgery, John is still suffering from altered taste: many foodstuffs retain an odd, metallic tang. They had even forgone champagne tonight — their last-night-of-a-holiday-trip tradition. Sherlock had made a reservation at a well-known restaurant in a nearby town, but had agreed with John, who had begged off going based on his taste bud issue.

"It's fine," Sherlock assures him. "According to comments I found online, many adult tonsillectomy patients swear that zinc supplements and time will do the trick. I want to discuss the zinc theory with Collings when we get back; the potential mechanism both eludes and fascinates me."

There are several theories regarding why taste can be altered for such a long time, though Sherlock's database searches had yielded very little quality research done on the topic. He is inclined to believe that it's either scar tissue temporarily pressing on taste nerves, or an occult zinc deficiency developing postoperatively. "Zinc supplements should be harmless, at least."

"I like it here," John says, gazing over the moonlit sea. "I was more in the mood for cheap and cheerful than a jacket-and-tie affair, anyway, if I'm honest. Maybe we plan trips too meticulously; it was nice just to act a bit spontaneous this time."

Sherlock hums, considering this. Of course, he’d planned everything meticulously — this trip had been his idea, after all. But he had made sure to allow for plenty of rest and adjustments to John's fitness level in his holiday plan. At first, his husband had got winded walking even a short distance uphill, but a week of sightseeing, city walking and beach strolling has done wonders for John's recovery. He's been back to work for weeks, but had spent most evenings before their trip napping and watching TV, needing longer to recharge than he used to. Edgar has still pitched in with running errands, but once they return home, his additional assistance will no longer be necessary and Sherlock's PA can return to working his regular contracted hours.

"Frustrating that all it takes is one simple surgery to wipe out my exercise tolerance completely."

"You've regained much of it."

"Yeah," John agrees reluctantly, "but I'm not getting any younger. We should exercise more, have a better think on what we eat when we get home. Standing in the OR, staying up all night when on call, sitting in the office lots and then crashing on the couch in the evening is burning the candle from both ends."

"What candle?"

"I mean that it's not helping us stay healthy and fit."

"Oh." Sherlock halves a breadstick, offers one end to John, and then begins chewing on his half thoughtfully. Does John feel… _old_ , somehow? Will he start nagging at Sherlock more, now, about their habits at home?

John laughs. "You look like I've just told you I want to start running ultramarathons. Don't worry; I don't mean we should do anything drastic. Maybe… start with reconsidering all the takeaway?"

"I'm sure Edgar could point us to some sensible and convenient meal services and such."

"You know I like cooking."

"And you know I like knowing what I'm eating. And you keep telling me you don't want to waste what little free time we have in the evenings standing in the kitchen."

"If I cook it, you will know what's in it," John promises, taking a big bite of his breadstick. Soon, his lip curls up in secretive amusement.

"What?" Sherlock asks, sipping his water.

"I was just… remembering something from Afghanistan. You, at the mess hall, trying to find something you could recognise and assume is palatable by your standards."

"I got food poisoning from that place; who wouldn't be suspicious after suffering through that?"

John's expression sobers up. "Right, yeah, sorry. Forgot about that for a minute."

"That means you were amused by what you consider my high-maintenance pickiness, instead."

John reaches out for his hand and gives it a squeeze. "No. What I remember about that was how you were about everything on that trip. You were as far from your comfort zone as you could be, but you did your best and didn't complain, and I know it must have been really hard."

Sherlock draws a deep breath. He's uncertain about why they're discussing this; possibly John had just meant his remarks as light conversation, but Sherlock's thoughts have now turned grim and he wants to banish that gloom before it ruins their evening. "The environment was not the hard part. You were," he admits. "You were so withdrawn. Nothing I did seemed to help. Instead, everything I did just made you push me away. In fact, any time there's a problem with your health, it doesn't seem like I'm your first choice for support because you probably assume that I cannot deliver such a thing."

"Of course, you can," John counters, his face twisting in concern. "I'm just… I don't want to inconvenience you even more than being sick or injured derails your life by default. You told me it's always hard on you."

"It derails my life because you're an integral part of it, and when this, _we_ , _us_ doesn't work, it distracts me from everything else. I need to fix it, and if I can't…"

"Sherlock," John says softly, "you're _my_ Sherlock even when I have no patience for anyone else and especially not myself. There's no threat to your position, especially not when I'm under the weather. There's nobody else whose company I'd welcome more than yours at those times."

"I tend to assume there's always a threat to my position. I have to work hard to keep afloat with things you find quite natural to navigate."

"I know you think that," John says with a soft smile, "but it's a lot of pressure that's not even based on anything. I'm not keeping a scorecard of your performance with my bags packed if you don't do everything perfectly."

It sounds so ridiculous when put like that — Sherlock's fear that John will one day come to his senses and find someone who'd be a better partner. It's hard to get past that and trust that it's his John wants, not just anyone who ticks more imaginary boxes than he does.

John grimaces after having a taste of the fresh tomato salad that had somehow appeared beside each of them. "I don't know why, but tomatoes are still the worst."

"I have been told, over and over again, that relationships would be something I shouldn't even try because I'd just be banging my head against the wall. How could that not make me feel as though I'm having to prove people wrong?"

"This marriage has two people in it. Just two. It's nobody else's business how it works, and you sure as hell don't need to prove anything to me. I know how hard it is to drop old thoughts, though. I guess that's what we pay these therapists for."

Sherlock appreciates that John doesn't try to dismiss his claims and worries. Instead, after the conversations they've had lately, John just expresses supportive acknowledgment of what Sherlock tells him he finds difficult before applying patient logic to counter his arguments. Before, John always made light of things and that just made Sherlock feel even more a failure.

Their entrees arrive. Sherlock's sea bass fillets on a bed of fennel are cooked just right, and light enough that it'll leave him some margin for dessert. John appears to be enjoying his seafood pappardelle as well.

The more serious conversation seems to have stalled, and Sherlock suspects John would probably like to discuss something more light-hearted while they eat. But… he can't quite shake the memories that are stirring of the first days after John's tonsillectomy. He feels tremendously guilty and undeserving of John's praise, but John doesn't have all the information, does he? His opinion of how Sherlock had coped during that weekend is based on limited data.

He swallows. "It was… difficult, when you suddenly needed surgery. It wasn't enough that our plans were changed by your illness; I had not anticipated at all there might be a need for operative treatment."

"That makes two of us. I wasn't keen on the news, but at least it all happened quickly, and I didn't have time to stress about it."

" _I_ did," Sherlock insists. "And it changed all our plans, and I didn't have time to do the research to verify Collings' plan and in fact, I…”

Suddenly, though he knows it will probably destroy what remains of their holiday, he's terribly tempted to tell John about Wiggins and his illicit purchase. _What benefit would there be in full disclosure?_

Then again, what benefit has there ever been in secrets?

“I needed––" He puts his fork down, twists his fingers into the linen napkin on his knees.

He wants John to know. He needs John to understand, because he's begun to believe that John _wants_ to understand him, truly does. "It appears that some of my needs have… changed after we began our relationship. If I cannot have my John fix to cope with a crisis, I can be tempted to turn to my vices. When you were in hospital, I had to smoke so that I wouldn't do other things. One doesn't need some grand adverse event to start using again, John, all it takes is a momentary lapse in judgement. And how easily that can happen is frightening."

John puts his cutlery down on his plate, too. "What are you telling me? That you bought some cigs when I was in hospital? I know, remember? You may be a genius, but getting the smell out of a woollen coat is something that's beyond even your powers."

Sherlock stares at the fishbones on his plate. "Not… _just_ cigarettes. But I didn't do it, John, I bought some, but I _didn't_ use, just… exposed myself to the idea." He forces himself to meet John's gaze.

John's brows hitch up. "That bloke on the street. The one who really didn't look like any drug rep I've ever seen. Sherlock, you didn't…?"

"I just told you, I _didn't use_. But I got so angry at you for suspecting I did because I felt guilty."

"You felt guilty for… not using?" John is now confused. "But you said you bought some? Some of what?"

 _No turning back now. Genie's out of the bottle and wants his pound of flesh._ "Cocaine and crystal."

John closes his eyes for a moment, exhales. "You need to give me a moment."

 _A moment for what?_ It's not a lot of information to digest. Why does John need to take a moment? _Is he trying to calm himself down so that he won't make a scene?_

Panic is gripping Sherlock too hard for him to regret what he's just told his husband. _Is John going to walk out?_ He's startled when John speaks again and nearly knocks the fork off the edge of his plate.

"What did you do with the stuff, then? It's not still in the flat, is it?" John takes a large swig of his red wine, looking like he can't quite decide yet how cross he should be.

Sherlock wonders if the flush on his cheeks is caused by the wine, or his rising fury. "I got rid of it, all of it. It was just… I did it because I assumed that I could resist the temptation. And I did," he insists.

John may not match his intelligence, but Sherlock suspects there is no explanation he could give to buying class A drugs that John would consider acceptable. There is no logic that Sherlock could offer that John couldn't counter very easily.

And that's exactly what John does next. "That's a hell of a way to prove a point you think you already knew," he says, eyes fixed on Sherlock who wants to slip under the table to escape the scrutiny.

"I didn't take any of your oxys, either," he offers.

"I know," John says. He sounds… _not angry_ , Sherlock thinks. _Exasperated? Confused? Frustrated?_

John picks up his fork again, shaking his head. "How long has it been since you used, really?"

"It was long before we met."

"I know we've never talked about that stuff, and maybe I should have paid more attention to it. I've pushed it out of my mind because it's not been a part of our lives and I decided I should be able to trust you. We've been through–– _you've_ been through hard patches before, worse than we had lately, right?"

"Affirmative."

"And you didn't use during those periods, correct?"

"I didn't, no."

"How tempted were you?"

"For some reason, less than this time. Well, it's anyone's guess how tempted I'd have really been after Afghanistan, but there was the halo so the logistics would have been challenging. Perhaps it's reassuring that the practical challenges were enough of a deterrent then." Anything compromising his balance even more would have created a twofold threat to his career: active substance abuse and tetraplegia after a fall that would have dislodged his vertebra fracture would have made sure he'd never pick up a scalpel again. There was also that fact that he'd been so focused on John's recovery. Disappointing John even more than he thought he was already would have been unacceptable. In comparison, this time his need to use had been borne out of that sense of failure, and perhaps that's why it was different. Maybe that's why he'd been more tempted.

John is wondering about the timing, too: "Do you know why?" he asks.

"Pichler thinks some emotional things I had not dealt with before were coming to roost, triggered by your medical emergency."

"She knows about the drugs?" The last word is a whisper, complete with a glance around them.

"We've discussed it at length, yes."

"And she's not worried?"

"Of course, she was worried. But she is satisfied with my progress and my self-control. As am I," Sherlock adds.

"I don't need to tell you what the potential consequences to your career would have been, do I?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffs. "I had a trial run of those after Andreason died." Mycroft had helped him when he'd relapsed. He'd known he'd have to choose between the coke and his surgical career, and just like with Victor, he'd chosen the future.

It feels odd to be able to discuss all this with John, now. Odd not to feel embarrassed or afraid that something he said would crumble the foundations of their relationship. That who he _is_ means that foundation could never be solid. He knows better now. Trusts it. Trusts John and himself. "What I thought of even more than medicine were the consequences to us. The way you'd look at me if I failed like that."

"Maybe failure isn't the right word."

Sherlock frowns just as the server comes to pick up their plates. "Ti è piaciuto il cibo, signore?"

"Eccellente. Posso vedere la carta dei dolci?" He doesn't quite feel the pull of dessert anymore, but asking for the pudding menu should be a good way to get the staff to leave them alone for a while.

"Certo, signore."

John's expression is hard to decipher. Impatient, perhaps, for the server to leave? "Pichler doesn't think you need… I don't know, to go to AA meetings or something, then?"

"My abstinence has never been dependent on sitting in a circle with a bunch of average idiots wailing about our terrible childhoods. And my sobriety is _intact_ , John."

"You're… alright now, aren't you? You're working through that stuff that made you want to use? I didn't know if you wanted to talk about that at home, so I haven't asked about it a lot. You didn't end up starting any meds, so I thought things must've been getting better."

"Yes, I am working on those things with her, and I assure you she has treated the incident with the gravitas it deserves. I'll admit that the worrying part was how suddenly the temptation arose and how I did not anticipate such things could bring it on."

"Am I right that the problem wasn't just my surgery, though?" John asks carefully. "You seemed to be… I don't know… a bit down even before. I thought the weekend away would cheer you up, but that went tits up."

Sherlock bites his lip and receives his menu card from the passing waiter. John waves off the offer and orders an espresso.

"No need to dredge up any of those things, now. I promise you it is nothing current. Just… old things," Sherlock says and sighs.

He wonders if he should give John a roundabout explanation — to mention their relationship problems after Afghanistan and decides against it. John has owned up to and apologised, sincerely, for what happened after Afghanistan. John had gone to therapy to confront his PTSD and his more destructive coping mechanisms. There is no need to drag him through the mud again. He's demonstrated he wants to do right by Sherlock, and Sherlock wants to repay him in kind by not punishing him further. No, what he's processing with Pichler regarding those days is connected to _his_ thinking and _his_ destructive coping mechanisms and lack of confidence, and John shouldn't be expected to fix those as penance.

"I didn't expect it to be so difficult to settle into a quieter routine now that the new research unit is up and running. Transitions are hard for me from something that motivates me to routine everyday life. Pichler thinks the stresses of having to deal with interpersonal things at work in the past year exhausted me, but that exhaustion had no outlet until things calmed down."

This seems to satisfy John. "Makes sense, I guess. You'll tell me if there's something I need to know? Keep me in the loop?"

"I promise," Sherlock says, fingering his wedding band and resting his hand, fingers splayed, on the table to emphasise the point. "I have made promises I intend to keep."

"About the drugs… the end result has to count, eh?" John suggests, "There's no thought police when it comes to these things, love. If you didn't use even though you were tempted, then I'm happy and proud of you."

"I'm disappointed that so little would lead to such a temptation."

"Has it happened often?"

"No."

"Then it's just a fluke. A random event. Like you said, your sobriety is intact even though you've gone through a lot in the past few years."

"It's still a reminder of how flimsy things really are. I can assure you I am still more spooked, in some ways, by what happened than you are right now. I wasn't when it happened, because I managed to rationalise it to myself. Talking to Pichler has made me look at it more objectively."

"Aren't you being a bit too hard on yourself?" John asks.

"Aren't you being a bit too lenient?" Sherlock counters. He downs the last of his glass of wine, an unimpressive, mineral-heavy local white from Inzolia grapes.

"You don't need my forgiveness for something that didn't happen. But maybe you need your own. You set such astonishing standards for yourself, and that includes stuff about our relationship."

"I only want to do for you what you do for me. That's not too high a bar, is it?"

"Neither of us is very nice company when we're sick. Not a good time for the other one to need them. I get cranky and don't feel like being intimate on any level when I'm sick, but it's not your fault."

"It's just very difficult to endure."

John wipes his mouth with his napkin and regards him fondly. "I know." He breathes out, leans back in his chair. "It would be unrealistic, I think, to expect that being sober means never being tempted. I know we don't talk about it, but I do know what you used back in the day and you just told me what you bought, and that's a hell of a thing to resist, to keep away from. I still don't think of you that way, as a… I don't know, _user_ , never have."

"Which makes you less prejudiced than most. Or wilfully ignorant."

"We've all done some stupid shit in our twenties, me included. Doesn't have to be drugs to be worth a bit of regret. Just… please don't fear that my opinion of you would change if you come to me for help. It won't. Or, I'll just be more impressed that you know how to manage your addiction. If you ever feel that need again, I want you to feel like you can come to me. I may not have personal experience of what it's like, but I can promise you won't be alone trying to deal with it. Plus, we have Pichler and your family, too."

"That's assuming you'll even care about my problems if something happens to be going on with you." The venomous words appear out of nowhere, and his hand covers his mouth in horror before they've even registered. Sherlock instantly, bitterly regrets them. He hadn't even meant them. Why the hell would he say such a thing? It's not reflective of their relationship, now. It's old soot, trickling down the chimney, residual anger he's worked hard to exorcise with Pichler so that it wouldn't taint their marriage now.

John is staring at him, now. But he doesn't look angry. Instead, he looks utterly confounded. "What… where's this coming from?"

The anxiety Sherlock had thought was mostly banished by all the therapy sessions washes over him, nearly pushing his dinner back up his oesophagus. He hadn't meant for this to happen; hadn't meant to say those things he'd thought when John was holed up in the bedroom after the tonsillectomy and when John had pushed him away after Afghanistan.

"Why wouldn't I care? Sherlock? When have I ever not cared?"

"I don't know how to function without you. And I know how to function even less when you're right there but when we're not… communicating very well. When I don't know what to do to make things better for you. I feel more alone, then, than I did before we met because you're right there, but not really present, and you behave as though I'm the last thing you want to even look at."

Doctor Pichler keeps bringing these things up from the past, but Sherlock's mood has been so improved lately that he's been reluctant to dig deeper into such things during their latest sessions. It's just a sad thought that he might never be able to let fully go of the fear that the rift he'd experienced with John twice, now, may well happen again between them whenever one half of this marriage is ill or injured. The thought stresses him to the extreme. Before John, he thought he could cope with the solitude of being without a partner. Now that he knows what it's like to love someone and to have those feelings returned, he cannot go back to feeling that cutting loneliness he's experienced when he's had to fear losing all that.

John drags his chair closer to the table and slides his palm up Sherlock's forearm, gripping it just below his elbow. The restaurant is quiet; the sun has set, and their corner behind a row of potted plants offers some seclusion.

"Sherlock, listen. It sounds as though those are times when _I_ should be making things easier for _you_ , not the other way around. Maybe you could remind me of this conversation when you feel like that, hm? Just say _'John, Ravello_ ', and I'll know that I need to get over myself so I can remind you that I care about you more than anything. It'll be our Vatican cameos, hm?"

It hadn't occurred to Sherlock there could be a way to communicate such things without him having to know how to voice his feelings precisely. He'll never be much good at that, not even with Doctor Pichler's assistance. As usual, John seems to be doing a lion's share of the work, and that grates on Sherlock, but he tries to keep in mind that John wants to carry the load. _Let him help_ is what Joanna Pichler would say. _Let him be your husband_.

"I'll always care, hm? You hear me?" John says, giving his arm a firm squeeze. "Even when I've been an arse because I've been so snowed under trying to sort out my own head, I never stopped caring about you. Never have. And I never will. I don't get mad or frustrated at people because I don't care about them; it happens because I do. We've had some ups and downs, but we got through all that because we both love and care so much. I don't want you to think you have to behave yourself or put up some front. If you don't know how to help, chances are I know fuck all better. We'll have to work it out together. Trying to fix a relationship problem alone doesn't work."

Sherlock thinks back to several instances when they've argued and how, afterwards, just being close in bed without even talking had felt like it had repaired many things because John reaching for him physically, even with residual anger still crackling between them, had made him feel less alone and powerless.

John isn't done. "Don't pull away from me when you're having a difficult time, because it just makes it worse when I can't be there for you. It's the worst when you think nobody understands and that you're on your own. I made the mistake of thinking that about you in and after Afghanistan and I was so wrong that it nearly wrecked us. You don't have to keep convincing me that you're worthy of our marriage. You don't have to justify my choice in partner to other people. It's my choice, and it's my job to defend us. Yours, too, but not because you think I need excuses to be with you. Anyone who wonders why we're together can fuck right off. I don't care about anybody's opinion of you except my own and yours, and clearly, yours is much worse than mine. I want to change that. I need to change that, and it sounds like Pichler's in my corner with that?"

Sherlock suddenly finds himself quite tongue-tied. John is looking at him expectantly, thumb sweeping firmly on the skin covering his flexor carpi radialis muscle. John knows not to touch him too gently.

"How about we get you some ice cream, then get back to the hotel and just talk some more?" John suggests.

"And see what happens?" Sherlock suggests tentatively.

"Yeah, sure," John promises. " _Just see what happens_ is actually the best bit of advice for being married to you, really: just keep an open mind and see what surprises wait around the corner."

Sherlock is not entirely certain he even wants sex or that John will be in a mindset to have it after some more potentially emotionally laden conversation. What Sherlock wants more right now than to be aroused is the feeling after sex, all blissed out and lying mostly on top of his husband. Falling asleep to the sound of John's lungs taking in air, of his heart beating, his arms around Sherlock. That is when he feels more present and loved than ever. John is his heart, his life, his one and only thought in those moments, and it is a feat no one else has achieved: to anchor Sherlock so into the present that his mind quiets down to appreciate what it has right there, right then.

  
_________________

The following weeks back home are a flurry of John trying to catch up with all the paperwork he's missed during their holiday. Sherlock and his fellow neurosurgeons get snowed under with work since there is a massive surgical conference being organised in town. Many of their King's colleagues are in the organising committee and thus out of patient work duty. His days stretch even longer than usual, and the frantic pace continues well after the conference.

On a Friday three months after John's surgery, Sherlock realises he can't ask John to wait another God-knows-how-many-hours until he gets out of a long-winded posterior fossa operation. Edgar promises to procure transport home when he needs it. Burdening the young man causes little guilt since he gets paid for it. Sherlock's need for his services has diminished somewhat now that the new research unit is running fully, allowing Edgar to take on another client. It's another surgeon from King's, one higher up in administration, who had been looking for help to manage a busy life for some time before he'd heard of Sherlock's solution.

He knows to expect that John might have ordered in dinner or rustled something up from what remains of their prior week's Ocado order. He's too tired and stressed to feel active hunger but knows that once he starts forking things in, his body will remember what it needs. He can misplace his appetite easily and completely when anxious or depressed, but tonight he's simply exhausted from his normal work, albeit too much of it, nothing worse.

When he opens the door to their flat, he's surprised to find the lighting dimmed down and a candle on the table. John is just taking a casserole out of the oven when Sherlock walks in. It smells divine and a sneaky peek while he divests of his coat and scarf reveals a perfectly browned, saucy top that looks a lot like Angelo's lasagne. It's not Sherlock's favourite, but barring things with ingredients the texture of which he can't abide, he'll eat nearly anything cooked by the staff there. As decided in Italy, they have tried to pay more attention to what they eat, but on weekends treats and indulges feel very deserved.

There's a glass of red wine on the table for John, a full glass of water for Sherlock since he rarely drinks alcohol at home, but an empty wine glass just in case he changes his mind. Red wine tends to give him a flush and a headache — he's sensitive to the histamine-triggering substances in it. He will probably pass for tonight, but he’s touched by the gesture of the choice.

John greets him with a bone-crushing hug, even offers the chair to him. Sherlock protests that he's not quite wrecked enough to need such service, but John silences his protest with a determined shake of his head and a peck on the cheek. They discuss their respective work weeks over the meal, and even Sherlock can tell John is making an effort to focus on him. It means he shouldn't bring his tablet or his phone to the dinner table; if he does that when John wants his attention, John will get annoyed. It's just one of the rules Sherlock has deduced and memorised through the years.

"Maybe we could go to Sandhurst in the summer?" John says à propos of nothing. "The museum is open to the public then, and we can have a walk around the barracks even if we can't get in everywhere. I'm sure there's plenty of other things in the area to see."

"Why go there in particular? It's not going to be the same as the reunion."

John shrugs. "I guess I wanted you to see the place. Though I won't get to parade you around as my arm candy––"

Sherlock gives him a sardonic glance.

"––I'd still love to visit with you."

"Why? Why me? I have no ties to that place or your service career."

John licks bechamel sauce off his lips. "There's something you said which I keep thinking of. Well, several things. You didn't seem convinced that I really wanted to take you there, that you assumed I had other reasons for feeling like I should."

Sherlock hums noncommittally. He's tired and not in the mood for emotional conversation. Mostly, he would just like to face plant into bed, perhaps replay that oligodendroglioma removal from yesterday in his head because the complex operation had gone so well and he wants to file the details away for future reference in his memory.

"The reason I never took out that uniform, didn't attend other reunions or even think much about the place after Afghanistan is that I… I guess I was embarrassed. I _know_ that it wasn't my fault that I got shot and there's nothing embarrassing about it, but you know how they look at colleagues at work who have to leave their positions for whatever reason? The sort of pity and I'm-glad-it-wasn't me?"

"Of course. There's stigma associated with being in healthcare and needing healthcare."

"Exactly. So, maybe I wanted to show up at Bastion looking like I _had_ a life, that getting invalided out didn't leave me just sitting around alone."

"How is that in any way connected to me? You've said that my career gives you an inferiority complex, and that's why you wanted that final deployment in the first place."

John looks a bit taken aback — has Sherlock been too honest? His features then soften.

"Sherlock, you _are_ my life now. I’m proud as hell of that. And I wanted you to come with me because I felt nervous going alone. Bringing you along would have given me new things to think about: showing you around the place, seeing it as a couple, revisiting memories that I’ve purposely ignored after Afghanistan. I kept thinking of us in Bastion; how different and how absolute shite it would have been without you. I was a mess, Sherlock, and you kept me up when I was just a bag of bones, not knowing what to do with myself. You've only seen that part of my life when it went to hell — I wanted you to see more of the nice sides of it. I wanted you to have a nice time, too. You were my distraction."

Sherlock can't help the smile creeping up. "I'm sure I would have said the same, watching you in your old element, so to speak."

"Speaking of," John says and springs to his feet, "I've got a surprise."

"I don't like surprises." Sherlock needs to analyse and plan ahead how he should react to gifts. Surprises eliminate all his chances of finding a socially acceptable manner in which to behave.

"Don't worry," John says and disappears into the bedroom. "I think you can cope with this one."

There's rustling and the sound of the wardrobe opening. Sherlock listens carefully, and his ears pick up clinks of metal and the scuffle of John changing his shoes.

Soon, he emerges from the bedroom — in his full RAMC officer's mess gear. His expression is odd: proud, yet expectant. Slightly nervous, yet mischievous.

Sherlock's cheeks go a bit warm, though it cannot possibly have anything to do with the sight of John wearing–– _that_.

"Thought I'd show it to you before I packed it away."

It's a strange explanation, since it lives in the back of the wardrobe and thus is not very troublesome to pull out. Why is John making excuses about why he's put it on?

John adjusts the belt a bit. "I thought I might even go so far as to serve you dessert in it." He's grinning.

"Dessert? What dessert?" Sherlock glances around the kitchen and sees no dishes or containers on the tables. The rest of the Angelo's order must be still in the fridge. Is it tiramisu? John knows he loves that.

"Not food," John says deadpan, his gaze roving up and down the sight of Sherlock standing stock still by the table.

Oh. _Oh_. "You mean––"

"Yes," John confirms.

"But what about the uniform?"

"Worth the extra dry-cleaning bill, if there is one."

Sherlock isn't sure at all about that. It feels sacrilegious, somehow, to contemplate such a thing as risking getting–– on–––

"Put the fork down, love, unless you want seconds. No need to stop staring, though. It's kind of flattering."

"I'm not––" Sherlock starts, then finds himself being pulled to his feet and pinned against the table as palms slide up his back. John leans in to kiss him, ending the long, lingering snog with a gentle nip of Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth.

"Bed, _private_ ," John whispers, and now Sherlock goes entirely crimson on the cheeks.

He pushes John slightly back with a palm on his chest. "I don't want _roleplay_ ," he protests indignantly.

John bursts out laughing. "Maybe not," he says, "it would feel a bit weird, to be honest, but if you ever wanted to try that…"

Sherlock gives him a glare. "Change the subject. _Now_."

"Less talk, more of what we just did, I hope?"

Sherlock's fingers pinch a crimson lapel, by which he starts pulling John towards the bedroom. "Excellent plan." He almost says _Captain_ , but in the light of his protests just now, he doesn't want to contradict himself. "I'm _not_ calling you Captain," he announces for good measure once they're in the bedroom and starts unbuttoning his shirt after shrugging off his jacket.

John makes no move of removing any part of his uniform. "Suit yourself," John says with a wink.

John never winks. What's got into him? He's wearing the uniform as though he's a good few inches taller, and he's walking around like he's in charge. It seems preposterous that just a set of clothing would transform him into something else, into something not quite the same but slightly similar to his work persona of Director of Operative Services.

Is this–– this has to be––

 _Captain Watson_ , Sherlock thinks. How had he not realised he's never been in bed with the man like this? He knows John is a great many things, but he never quite expected such an exquisite and distinct, yet subtle transformation.

"Any requests?" John asks, going for Sherlock's belt while he's unbuttoning his shirt.

 _Requests and not orders_? Sherlock wonders. He doesn't quite know how to respond to this new, strange, intriguing version of his husband. "I trust your imagination."

John shifts closer so that his knees bracket Sherlock's, and they tumble onto the bed, John sliding his fingers into Sherlock's curls and trailing a line of kisses up his jaw and past his mouth towards his ear. Shifting towards the foot of the bed, John lands back on his feet, leaning over Sherlock to tug his pants and trousers down to his knees. He looks determined in a way that borders on dangerous, and Sherlock's already interested cock decides to match its determination by filling up to its full thickness, insistently demanding attention.

And John gives it just that. Planting his palms on both sides of Sherlock's hips, he lets the shaft sink past his lips into the warm slickness of his mouth, his palate caressing the sensitive tip.

Sherlock gasps, squeezing his eyes shut from the sudden, overwhelming feeling. It takes a moment before he can form words. "What–– what about your–– isn't it too early for–– Oh _god_."

Should they have asked Collings when it would be safe for John to do this? Sherlock remembers the advice in that halo vest information leaflet prompting patients to ask their orthopaedist about safe sex practices. He'd done that, but Laura Arthur hadn't been all that forthcoming about explicit practical advice. _Perhaps they just put that in the leaflet, assuming nobody would actually raise the topic._ Yet another social trap sprung for the likes of Sherlock.

"Let me worry about that," John says smugly, having released Sherlock's now tightly throbbing length. "If testing this out on my fingers didn't hurt…"

Sherlock groans and tilts his head back against the pillows, suddenly assaulted by the oddly, obscenely arousing mental image of John waiting for him to come home, thinking about doing this to him. _Preparing_ for it.

John completes the circuit between his imagination and his body by enveloping his glans, pushing the foreskin down with his circled fingers and suckling at the tip with his lips and his tongue. The effect is nearly intolerably intense, and Sherlock only barely keeps his thighs from reflexively jerking together. After the initial assault, John slows the proceedings down, pulling away and wrapping his fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock and delivering slow, meticulous licks up the glans. Once he has Sherlock right where he must have decided he wants him, John envelops the tip with his lips again, grabbing Sherlock's wrist as he reflexively tries to shove John away as the sudden, intense pressure building at the base of his stomach almost short-circuits his frantically firing nerves.

"Not _yet_ ," he manages to groan, and John eases the intensity of whatever sucking and sliding–– _thing_ he's doing. When he adds the tip of his thumb into the proceedings, pushing it right in that spot in the perineum where it teases the prostate from the outside, Sherlock almost scrambles up and away. It's John's warm, firm palm on his knee that stops him, and the pressure behind his bollocks eases.

Sherlock manages to catch his breath before he hyperventilates. Wouldn't do to _faint_ on Captain Watson like some dainty maiden, now would it? To prove that he's not entirely at John's mercy, he rakes the air with his fingers until they meet coarse blond hair. He grabs a handful and tugs John's head towards his cock.

John hums in confirmation and gets back to work. When Sherlock comes with a shout, John’s uniform manages to remain stainless thanks to a pillow grabbed at a strategic moment and shoved at his husband's cock. John then drops onto his back on the bed next to him. Too blissed out to change position, Sherlock gives him what he hopes is a dedicated and spirited handjob, and the same pillow gets to ensure that the uniform survives this second assault mostly pristine. There's no telling how it will look after the _next_ round, though.

**— The End —**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctors Holmes and Watson will return. Their creator is most grateful for the many friends they have made in this fandom.
> 
>  _his heart, his life, his one and only thought_ is a quote from ACD, btw.


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